


Heavy

by Helholden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, ASOS Spoilers, Bonding, F/M, Family Dynamics, Friends to Lovers, Marriage, Parenthood, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 91,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wolves eat the little birds in the sky and the fish in the sea, and they’ll descend on the lions in the den and ravage the stags of the forest, but the wolves and the dogs—they run together.” After hearing Brienne's tale, Sandor Clegane leaves Quiet Isle in search of Sansa Stark before the Lannisters find her first. They flee across the sea to Pentos with Sandor acting as her sworn shield, but home calls from across the sea and the beasts are stirring in their dens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Graveyard of Boats

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this series comes from Florence and the Machine's song ‘Heavy in Your Arms,’ which had strong influence on the story. So far, I have only written from Sandor's point of view, but I expect to incorporate more POVs as it goes on. This series follows directly after the events of 'A Dance with Dragons,' so spoilers are rife and abound. I hope you all enjoy!

_i._

 

Though it was nighttime, the sky seemed to grow darker still as a storm brewed above the waters beyond the quay. The bottomless purple of the clouds rolled into the deep cobalt sky, darkening the world to unfathomable blackness. Boats rocked in the bay like cradles pushed by a mother’s arms, and the chill seeped deep beneath his heavy cloak. _To far north_ , he thought, _and hell comes with it_. But grim determination steeled his bones. He knew what he was doing when he set out to do it, and that was that. _Hell comes with it, but I come bearing hell_.

 

He left without the permission of Elder Brother, but with his blessing all the same, once he heard of Brienne’s story. He knew what he had to do. It was all well and good to do penitence digging graves and keeping silence, but Sandor’s penitence was a maiden of three-and-ten, fair of face, with auburn hair. He had left her there in King’s Landing when he should have taken her with him, and it was his responsibility to save her. It always had been his responsibility, not this mannish stranger’s. Bugger all if he would let this woman take her straight to Jaime Lannister, the Golden Lion himself.

 

With thoughts growing as dark as the storm clouds above, Sandor guided the small boat safely to the docks and tied it up. Balance from the boat to dry land was hard to keep, but his leg was still suffering a limp. Deep wounds took some time to heal, he learned a long time ago, but time was short in supply since the war started ravaging everything—the land, the people, and even him. It took them all.

 

Gulltown looked almost untouched but for the lack of ships in its belly. Some trading galleys lined the quay, boats of merchants and some sellswords marked the bay. In the dark of night, their colors all washed to grey. He didn’t come here for the ships, though, and he didn’t care who they bore.

 

He walked until he found a tavern with a light still burning in the windows. Taverns were the place for information, and it was information he needed—how to get to bloody Eyrie from here, and fast. His gait was limped, and those few passing souls out tonight paid him no mind. They walked right by, thinking him no threat. _A feeble old man_ , he thought with a raspy strain of laughter. A cowled hood did much for his poor, pitiful face.

 

The staff helped, too.

 

But he liked the staff, a nice blunt weapon when he couldn’t reach for the sword hidden beneath his cloak in time. He made a point to sharpen the topmost tip in case he had to drive it into anyone’s belly. A weapon was wherever you made it.

 

The tavern smelled of piss and stale Arbor, the musty scent of a whore’s perfume reaching his nose as he walked past the sorriest excuse of patrons this side of the Neck. The ruined corner of his mouth twitched. The barkeep was no help to him either, said the same thing those damn villagers told him. There was no way to cross without a small army. The mountain clans were stronger than ever, ravaging and raping the countryside to ashes and bone.

 

He left the tavern and made for the street when he saw it. A man, hurrying across the docks in the darkness, a smaller figure slouched beside him, scrambling to keep up. _Or being dragged,_ he thought grimly. Then he saw something else.

 

Hair, long hair, flying out into the black wind as her hood was blown off her head. Her head turned halfway, an ‘O’ written onto her lips, and fear in her eyes. She looked forward again just as quick, never noticing him. Her eyes had been on the sky as if the wind would be her savior.

 

_Fuck the gods,_ Sandor thought with bitterness.

 

He lifted the staff to muffle his approach and followed the figures. Sandor saw the glint of steel in starlight, the blade pressed against the little bird’s neck. So, this wasn’t a willing savior then. Good. It didn’t take him long to act once he knew that.

 

The little man was quick, but not quick enough. Sandor slammed the sharp end of the staff up into the man’s back, pushing it clean through him. A gasp filled the air, but not from the man. Without a single cry of anguish, the spear hit his heart and the mousey man lost his grip on life and Sandor shoved him ungracefully into the water with a splash.

 

She should have run if she had any sense left to her, but the little bird never had much sense. She stood there, looking so shocked, pretty little hand splayed over her pretty little chest and drew in a sharp breath.

 

He turned slowly to face her, his cowl no longer covering his face either. The wind had caught it and drawn it back. Her hair looked darker, but maybe it was just the night’s coloring. He grinned, but his grins always twisted into something grotesque and frightening.

 

“Recognize me, little bird?” he rasped.

 

He expected her to run, maybe even scream. Perhaps she’d faint like one of those daft maidens in those songs she loved so much, but Sansa Stark looked different now then she had at King’s Landing, and she stood straighter in his presence here in the dark after he’d just killed a man in cold blood than she ever had when he offered, in the stillness of her bedroom chamber, to take her away to safety.

 

His eyes narrowed. What was wrong with the damned girl? “Why aren’t you running?” he asked her. He half expected he’d need to chase her after all this mess, but there she was, still as a caged winter bird without wings. Only that wasn’t right. The girl had wings if she stared at him like that without running. Big foolish, graceful wings.

 

When it looked as though her tongue had caught in her throat and she wasn’t going to move, Sandor grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along with him. “We’ve got to get out of here quick,” he barked. “Somebody heard that splash, and I don’t fancy the ocean as my grave.”

 

“W-we?” she stammered. Ah, there was the little bird. Talking at last. “I can’t—I—” Her own words cut themselves short, and the fumbling bird turned into a wolf faster than he expected of her. “Why are you here?” Sansa demanded, trying to wrest her arm away from his grip. “Where are you taking me?”

 

“Somewhere where lions can’t reach you.”

 

She didn’t seem to be struggling as much anymore. “ . . . Why?”

 

Sandor stopped and looked at her. He must have seemed a cruel sight, hard eyes and scowling ruin. “Do you want to die, girl?” he rasped. “Or do you want to live?” He snorted derisively. “I’d bet all the gold in Casterly Rock that man was dragging you straight to the Queen for a big bag of his own. The Queen wants your head for Joffrey’s. Every sellsword this side of the sea will be looking for you. Every pisspot thirsting for glory and gold is hunting you.”

 

Her eyes grew wide, but she was no more frightened of him now than she had been a moment ago. “And what do you plan to do about it?” she asked him warily, but her eyes bore steel against him in their own fierce way. She had grown brave, this one. He had to give her that. The little bird was becoming her own she-wolf.

 

“Keep you away from them,” he answered gruffly, and he pushed her along without another word.

 

They traveled in silence back to the boat. He untied the rope and pushed off with the single oar, keeping close to shore. The girl huddled in her cloak and skirts, trying to keep warm, casting her eyes out to the horizon often. She looked at him sometimes too, and stared, before gazing wistfully at the receding city behind them. Her gaze was bold these days. Bolder than he remembered.

 

“Thank you, ser,” Sansa said at last, “ . . . for coming back for me.” It was too dark to tell, but it seemed she tried to smile, though it didn’t hold long. She looked like she wanted to say something more. He was glad when she didn’t. Her courtesy meant well, but he was the kind of man who hated courtesies for the sake of courtesy.

 

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Thank the pious man.”

 

Sansa opened her mouth to speak, and closed it. She had no idea who he was talking about, and he was in no mood to tell her stories, so the silence weighed down upon them once again. Comfortable and thick, like the fog along the shore. Sansa kept fidgeting, and though he expected her to look everywhere but him, most of the time her eyes fell on him.

 

Something was clearly on her mind, and she made it plain.

 

“Where are we going?” Sansa asked.

 

There was no point in hiding it. “Across the Narrow Sea.”

 

“To . . . to the Free Cities?”

 

“Aye, to Pentos.”

 

She looked down at the ragged boat, only enough to hold the two of them a bag of wheat between them. “How will we be traveling?”

 

“By ship.”

 

“Who . . . who am I to be?”

 

By gods, she asked a lot of questions. “Be whoever you want to be,” he snarled, irritation searing his voice. Sandor looked at her and regretted his harsh tone. He shouldn’t be so damn angry all the time. Wasn’t that what the Elder Brother told him? “You are full of wrath and hate,” he had said solemnly, “stormy companions who demolish men big and small, and they will drag you down to the depths of the seven hells with your brother if you let them, Sandor. They will eat you alive.”

 

“Fuck Gregor,” Sandor had hissed in reply, “and fuck the gods. I’ll butcher his corpse in hell and feed them his roasted flesh.”

 

Sansa wasn’t Gregor, though. The girl just wanted to know what was to become of her. Some new catspaw picked her up at every turn and whisked her away into captivity somewhere else, but a cage was a cage no matter how pretty the walls were painted. Truth be told, she ought to have grown wary of rescuers and their promises. Sandor snorted contemptuously at the thought, and it earned him a curious glance from her, but no questions.

 

“I’m . . . I’m sorry, ser,” she ventured, hesitant.

 

Sandor grunted, a wisp of air exhaling through ruined flesh of his mouth. “No, little bird,” he said, suddenly tired. “Don’t apologize to the likes of me.”

 

Once they safely boarded the Myrish galley to set sail for Pentos, Sandor made sure to keep guard over her while she slept. He trusted the men not, and the captain even less. He was a proud man of slender build, his hair a plait of long black curls pulled back from his face, sharp eyes, and an even sharper nose like bird’s beak. He watched Sansa everywhere she went on the ship, and Sandor watched him.

 

One night when she couldn’t sleep, the little bird perched at the rail to watch the waves thrash against each other like the slippery black arms of some great sea serpent. Sandor kept his eyes on her from across the deck without intruding until something told him to go to her, and he did.

 

His instincts were right. She turned her head to gaze at him. He had realized formerly in the daylight that her hair had been darkened; it washed out her features, and made her appear older than her thirteen years. She looked away again, eyes facing the sea. There was a question bubbling underneath her tongue, and he observed her struggle with it.

 

“Why did you kiss me?”

 

His eyes showed his shock plainly. It was a heavy laden blow against his stomach, taking the wind straight out of him. When had he kissed her? His face contorted in confusion and scorn, his mouth twitching. He thought of a hundred contemptuous remarks to make and made none of them. “What?”

 

She held her chin a little higher, but still did not meet his eyes. “In King’s Landing when you came to my room . . . you . . . you kissed me.”

 

“I never kissed you, girl.”

 

That made her look at him, surprise clear on her young, striking face. “No, I . . . I remember . . . you—”

 

Sandor closed the distance between them, his hulking frame towering over her small and helpless one. “I held a knife to your throat and made you sing me a pretty little song, but I never kissed you.” _Aye, but I thought about it. I thought about ripping that bodice clean off with my dagger and. . . ._ But she had sung to him, in that beautiful and terrible voice of innocence, and he had felt the tears come unbidden into his eyes. He had not been able to not rob her of what drew him to her. The little bird enamored him, and he lusted after her, but it was more than lust alone. Her hand had reached up to touch his face, to touch the blood and the tears as they mingled together on his cheek, and he had pulled away from her, unable to bear it anymore. He couldn’t take from her what made her beautiful. He would not be that monster, he had realized then.

 

Sansa trembled for a moment, as if she could not—did not—believe him. With a _swoosh_ of her skirts, she was away from him and going below deck. He did not follow her for once.

 

The journey was quieter after that. A lot of the air seemed to go out of her, and he was saved from much of her talking. When they finally reached Pentos, Sandor escorted her into the city as he had been instructed to do, following the directions he had memorized in his head. He found the manse easily, and they made company with the merchant and supped with him as his guests.

 

Within a few short weeks, Sandor was a well-paid officer with a young auburn-haired beauty that most people believed to be his daughter. Sansa fervently denounced those claims, though, and before long suitors and young boys piled up to the merchant’s manse to get a glimpse of her or talk to her. Sandor frightened them all away.

 

“Look,” he finally said at some point, “you can’t go around telling everyone you’re an unmarried maid. They’ll come after you like a swarm of bees toward honey, girl, and I’ll end up killing some dumb sod who lays a hand on you.”

 

Sansa blushed a pretty shade of crimson as she looked down. “I didn’t realize,” she began uncertainly. “I just . . . I didn’t want to be your daughter. I was . . . well, I posed as Littlefinger’s daughter, a bastard, and . . . ” She swallowed, the words catching in her throat. Sandor knew how lady bastards were treated. He didn’t need to be told twice.

 

“Who should I be?” she asked, and it wasn’t the first time she had asked that. “I must have a story, a name.” They both knew she couldn’t very well be Sansa Stark of Winterfell, not out here, or anywhere.

 

He suggested someone from history. “Name yourself after some princess you admire. It’s simple enough. You can say you were named after them. No family members, though. People might recognize the name and make connections.”

 

“Elia,” Sansa said, brightening up. “She was married to Prince Rhaegar . . . ”

 

“ _No_ ,” Sandor cut her off tersely. “Not that name.” He did not say Elia was raped and butchered by his own brother, but the name was too close to home for that reason. He would not call her that, not ever.

 

Sansa’s gaze fell for a moment. “Oh. Well, I suppose I could be . . . ” She sat there for a moment, chewing on her lower lip.

 

“Rose,” he said. “Simple name as they come, and your hair’s the color of one.”

 

Sansa looked at him and smiled, the light reaching her eyes.

 

“Yes, Rose. I like it.”


	2. Courtesies and Wishful Thinking

_ii._

 

One of the merchant’s servants tried to steal away into Sansa’s room one night, and her scream awoke Sandor immediately. He nearly killed the boy had Sansa not stayed his arm. She was crying, her gauzy sleeping shift torn, but no physical harm had been done. The merchant sent the boy away, but Sandor had taken one look at Sansa’s red eyes and tear-streaked face and his lips tightened in a thin line of fury.

 

“I’ll get us our own manse,” was all he said.

 

As soon as one of the properties beside the merchant’s house became available, Sandor purchased it. He received high pay working for the merchant, and he knew remaining close would ensure continued service. The new manse wasn’t as big as the merchant’s manse, but it gave Sansa more freedom to roam and safety away from those Sandor did not like or trust. If there was another serving boy incident, her gentle hand would not stay him again.

 

“Oh, it’s _beautiful_ ,” she exclaimed when she saw it, and she was even more impressed at the size of her new chambers. Her gasp of surprise told him as much. Now that she was no longer staying in servants’ quarters, she must have felt more at home. The new manse was closer to her comforts back in Winterfell, Sandor imagined. Or so he hoped.

 

He never witnessed her truly happy before, not even when he had rescued her from Littlefinger’s wilting grasp in Gulltown, but her face was alight with pure joy. Sansa threw her arms around his middle to hug him, her face buried against the jerkin at his chest. Sandor almost placed an arm around her, but she pulled away suddenly once she realized what she had done. Sansa’s blue eyes shone with alarm, her cheeks reddening to embarrassment.

 

He would not begrudge her that, he told himself. Sandor was not a man used to being hugged after all, and he knew her alarm was not out of fright or disgust. Sansa was afraid of making him ill at ease, and it was true. Her sudden rush of gratitude had disquieted him because he hadn’t known how to respond.

 

“Thank you, Sandor,” she said properly, bowing her head like a little lady. “For everything you have done for me. I am most grateful.”

 

The manse was an oasis in the desert. There was an enclosed garden with a pool, open and airy rooms and walkways. Pillars surrounded the outside walls, encased with a roof for protection from the elements. He hired some eunuch guards and a handmaiden for her. Sansa began to take to the local fashion in a desirous effort to fit in, but it made Sandor intolerably uncomfortable. Her dresses were made of a fine, gauzy material more often than not, and her growing womanly curves were plain to see. When her nipples hardened, he could see them flush beneath the fabric and his breeches tightened painfully in response.

 

She was beautiful; there was no doubting that.

 

Sansa began to talk to him more, and she smiled often. She told him little by little about her family and her life back home, and Sandor found he liked listening to her stories. He never seemed to say much during them, but telling them made her happy, and that was all that mattered. The girl was still reserved, though, and shy enough that it was a sensible thing. She liked to play board games and asked him to join her most nights. They played well past darkness until it was suitable for him to leave her quarters, but some nights he thought about staying. He never did.

 

One day when he came home, he found her sitting under an evening sky in the garden, her knees pulled up to her chest. The flowers and leaves were painted in violet and deep pinks from the falling daylight, and Sansa’s bare shoulders looked flushed beneath the sunset. He watched her quietly for some time until he shifted his weight and a twig cracked, and Sansa looked back. She smiled at him.

 

“Hello, Sandor.” Sansa gestured at a patch beside her. “Come, sit with me. Please.” She got used to calling him by his name after some time in Pentos. No more ‘sers’ and ‘my lords,’ thankfully. Before he could come up with an excuse to leave, he moved in beside her, armor and sword clinking as he sat down.

 

“It’s especially beautiful today,” she said. He watched as a stray piece of auburn hair tickled her bare shoulder.

 

“Yes, it is.” His eyes were still on her skin.

 

Her throat tightened. He noticed it. Sansa took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the motion. Something was on her mind. Sandor wondered if it was something good or something bad. He suddenly thought back on the kiss she had mentioned all those many months ago when they embarked on their passage to Pentos, but Sansa never brought it up again once he had dismissed it. It felt like a year ago. It almost was.

 

“I was thinking . . . ” She struggled with the words. “Should I not be married again at my age?” Sansa turned to look at him, but Sandor felt the words like a sword in his gut, tearing at his entrails.

 

“I thought you still married,” he said coldly. “To the Imp.” His words were harsh. He could not help that. The memory had been a bitter one when first tasted, and it still brought ash to the back of his throat.

 

“If a marriage is not . . . consummated, it is invalid in the eyes of gods and men,” Sansa explained. “It never was,” she added softly. “I am absolved of its fetters.” Sansa had no choice in the match, that much was obvious, but she bore its mark with dignity befitting a lady of her stature.

 

Her words brought some small respite with them. Sandor had always feared the Imp had his way with her on the wedding night, but now he knew that to be only jealous ponderings borne out of his own mind. While one part of him was relieved to know this, another part of him reeled at the thought of her marrying someone else again.

 

“You said you were sick of marriage,” he snapped harshly, remembering one of their many talks, and he was unable to control himself. “Why should you want to be married? You have a good life here. I provide for you everything you need, anything you want. You need only ask, and I’ll get it for you.”

 

Her lips were parted, but no sound came out at first. She looked even more uncertain than she had before she mentioned her thoughts to him. “I still want to stay, of course. I . . . ” As if words were not enough, she gently laid her small hand on his forearm atop the plated armor there. “I could not dream being anywhere else but here. You have been uncommonly good to me, and for that I am eternally grateful.”

 

 _Her damn courtesies again_ , Sandor thought. He hated them. She hid behind them like a shield, even in front of him. “I don’t need your damn courtesy, girl,” he sneered. He stood abruptly. The absence of her little hand left a burn where it no longer touched him through his armor.

 

“Sandor, wait, please—”

 

He was already stalking away. That night he heard her crying in her room. The airy manse let many sounds float through its halls. Most of the time he was thankful for it because it kept him alert to any danger. Tonight he wished for nothing more than noise to drown out the sound of her tears.

 

Sansa wanted to leave him, but she didn’t have the courage to outright say it. He wondered what pretty boy bewitched her with his eyes so he could rip them out of their sockets and feed them to the rabid street dogs. He would not part with her. He _could_ not. Even if she would never desire him, or love him, Sandor wanted to keep her to protect her, to shield her from the miserable world outside, and . . . to look at her, just to look at her. Selfish as it was, she tempered the rage inside of him.

 

He would not part with that.

 

As pretty as it was for him, though, it was just another cage for her. Sandor realized that in the coming weeks of silence, courtesy, and tears. He could not keep her a prisoner anymore than the men before him had done, and so he came to her in silence one evening and sat on the edge of her bed as she stared out of her window.

 

“Sansa,” he rasped. He imagined reaching for her hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her without her permission.

 

It took her a moment to look at him. When she did, he saw that Sansa’s eyes were red and her cheeks were dry with tear streaks. Something inside of him cracked and came away broken. This was his fault. “My lord,” she said softly, barely above a whisper. It stung like the knife it was meant to be.

 

“If marriage is your wish,” he began, “I cannot deny you the one and grant you all the rest.” His teeth ground together painfully. It was hard to continue. Before he could say more, a fresh fall of tears spilled about her cheeks and she reached across the bed to take his hand into both of hers. Sansa seemed to sob, but he realized it was gentle laughter instead, and she leaned down to kiss his hand.

 

One moment she was kissing his hand, and the next she was pressed flush against him, her thin arms wrapped about his neck in a hug. Sandor felt his discomfort growing rapidly and heat rising to his face, but Sansa either did not notice or did not care. She kissed his cheek and sat herself in his lap, both of her legs on one side in a decent manner, and rested her head against his chest with her arms still wrapped loosely about his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered.

 

Sandor couldn’t push her away. His hand came up to brush her hair. “Shh, little bird,” he rasped. _Everything will be okay_ , he thought, but he didn’t say it out loud because it wasn’t meant for her.


	3. In Vino Veritas

_iii._

 

Though he had given his consent if she wished to marry some boy, or even worse some older man, Sansa never asked to bring anyone over to the manse or introduced him to any suitors. He supposed at first it had something to do with her wanting privacy, but it made no sense if she asked for his permission in the first place. Eventually, Sandor gave up guessing and, refusing to ask, minded his own business.

 

Nevertheless, Sansa’s spirits were higher than ever. He heard her singing in the mornings, singing during her baths, and her voice carried through the halls like a sparkling rainfall tinkling against a dry cracked world. It both gladdened him and ate away at his heart.

 

After they had eaten supper and washed it down with a hearty Dornish wine, Sansa clapped her hands together and grinned from ear to ear. She was flushed, a pink tinge creeping up her neck. Her eyes glittered from the wine. “Deana,” she asked pleasantly, “play us a merry song, please. I should love to dance this evening.”

 

Deana went to her instrument and began to play, smiling as well, and Sansa rose from the table. She began to dance by herself across the room, and Sandor stole glimpses but otherwise remained at the table to continue drinking. Usually, he avoided wine. In the past it had been his vice to drink away his sorrows and agitations when he could no longer handle them, which had been often, but he saw no harm in it after so long being without.

 

His abstinence had been for Sansa’s sake, but tonight she encouraged him to drink with her and he had obliged, as he did often, to make her happy.

 

Sansa wasn’t happy dancing alone, though. She crept up to the table on swift, silent feet and took his hand with gentle fingers. “Sandor,” she said, curtseying, “would you please dance with me? My feet are awfully alone.”

 

“I don’t dance.”

 

“Please,” Sansa pleaded, in a voice he imagined she must have used on her father in the distant past before his beheading, before the war, and before their lives ever intertwined. “I need a partner.” When Sandor met her eyes, he saw that she was drunk, but her eyes were luminous dark pools and her smile drowned him.

 

“All right,” he conceded.

 

He let her lead him from the table. While he had no formal dance training, he knew some basic steps, and Sansa held his hands while she led the way in a simple and careful dance. She was very tall for her age, fourteen almost fifteen and still growing, and her breasts filled in beneath her gowns more than they had in the past. She was a woman now, that much was certain. A beautiful, blossomed woman.

 

And she no longer feared him. She no longer looked away from his scarred face. She delighted in his company, longed for his acceptance, and gave him small touches throughout the days to show it. Loving touches, laced with tenderness and care. She spoke to him about her life before King’s Landing, told him about her family even though they were all dead, all but her bastard brother, and most of all she grinned at him every day and meant it.

 

He was in love with the damn girl, and she didn’t even know it.

 

“Oh!” Sansa suddenly stumbled and nearly lost her balance, but Sandor caught her. She giggled in a girlish manner, laid her head back, and sighed.

 

“All right, little bird, time for bed,” he told her. He scooped her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing.

 

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck. “Oh, but I don’t _want_ to go to bed. I was having so much fun _dancing_ . . . ”

 

He grunted. “You’re drunk. You’ll hurt yourself, Sansa.”

 

Her sudden quietness made him look down. Her eyes were heavy, but not with sleep. Her hand came up to touch his cheek, and she traced the back of her fingers over his rough, scratchy beard. Her red lips were parted as she gazed at his face somewhere below his eyes; a soft, shuddered breath escaped those lips, and the heat pooled dangerously low in his belly.

 

“Rose,” she whispered. “My name is Rose.”

 

Damn it, he was drunk too. He felt himself responding to her barely there touches and whispered breaths. When he made it to her bedroom, he thought about dropping her unceremoniously onto the bed to give her a wake up call, but he decided instead to place her down carefully.

 

Once her back touched the bed and he turned his head to look at her, Sansa cupped his cheek and rose up to kiss him.

 

He froze, but it was a moment so miniscule that it vanished as quickly as it had happened. He pushed his mouth against hers, deepening the chaste kiss and leaning some of his weight onto her. Sansa moaned prettily beneath him, and he growled. He didn’t remember how it happened, but he was on top of her, one of his hands tearing at her bodice and ripping it open. That was when she whimpered loudly, but there wasn’t pleasure in the sound, and said, “No, please, _no_ —”

 

Sandor pulled away, and her arms came up to cover her torn bodice, though nothing showed but the cloth of her fine dress beneath it. He staggered off of her, horrified with himself, horrified with what he’d done. She had been moaning, he thought—but no, she was weeping. Sandor felt so sick he almost retched. He fled from her and staggered down the hall to his own room, his head swimming and his legs too heavy beneath him. Sandor fell onto his bed, where he did finally retch and blacked out.

 

When morning rose the sun came bright with it, blinding his eyes and increasing the pain of his hangover. He shielded his eyes from the brightness, only to see a figure sitting at the foot of his bed. Sandor shot up—and instantly regretted it, a stabbing pain blinding his vision temporarily.

 

“It’s just me,” Sansa announced. “I brought you something for your head.”

 

“Sansa . . . ”

 

“Shh, don’t speak. You’ll only hurt yourself.” He felt the bed dip beside him and pulled away from it. Then a hand on his hand—he pulled away from that, too. “Sandor, _stop_ it,” Sansa chided him like he was a child. “You need to drink this if you want to feel better.” He let her take his hand this time, and felt her press a cup between his fingers. “Here, it’ll help.”

 

Sandor grunted and took the cup, squeezing his eyes shut as he downed it in two gulps. It wasn’t awful like he expected. In fact, it had a honeyed sweetness to it and tasted also of milk. He wondered what she had given him. “Sansa . . . last night . . . ”

 

“Shh, it’s all right.” He felt her hand touch his brow, gently laying it flat against his skin. “We both had too much to drink. Things grew . . . out of hand . . . but it’s no matter. Everything is all right today.” She sounded so sure of herself, but a frown creased deeply on Sandor’s face. It was not all right. It was not damned _all_ _right_.

 

He slowly shook his head. “It’s not,” Sandor snapped out loud, voicing his thoughts. “It’s not damned all right. I haven’t—” No, that was not something to say in front of Sansa. _I haven’t had a woman in ages_ , he almost said, but her ears didn’t need to hear that filth. Besides, it reeked of excuses. He had lost his self-control in a moment of drunkenness.

 

Sandor took a deep breath. There was a reason he avoided the bottle.

 

Sansa only smiled at him, though, when he looked at her. A warm beam of light came off her sunlit skin, and she bent down to kiss him softly on the cheek. It was all in his mind, but he thought she let her lips linger far longer than necessary.

 

A peaceful illusion, but he closed his eyes to savor it.

 

Her hand patted his chest. “It’s no matter,” she repeated, firmer this time. “You must sleep. It will help you feel better.” Sansa rose from the bed, but Sandor caught her hand and she looked back with mild shock for one instant before her expression schooled itself into calm inquiry. The pulse in her hand quickened beneath his fingers despite her steady eyes.

 

“Sansa—”

 

“Yes?”

 

Sandor wondered why he stopped her. His thumb absently stroked her hand, and then he let her go and closed his eyes.

 

“Thank you,” he managed to rasp, “for forgiving this old codpiece.”

 

Her voice was tinged with amusement when she answered him. “Codpieces are hard to clean, but I think we can manage to get the stain out of this one,” she said in jest, and Sandor chuckled despite the sharp pain it brought him. Sansa had never made a joke, not in all the time he had ever known her.

 

Maybe, despite all of the mistakes, he was doing at least one thing right after all.


	4. Many Dishonest Men

_iv._

 

Sandor burst through the front entrance of the manse covered in blood.

 

Two of the servants in the main veranda were in the middle of returning a large vase to its pedestal after routinely cleaning it. They looked quickly, and upon seeing him, screamed and dropped the pottery with a loud crash. Sandor shoved them out of the way with every ounce of his strength. Their screams alerted the other servants, and more came running to see what was the matter. Before Sandor made it to the washroom, he was being followed by almost everyone in the damn house.

 

He lurched around a corner and froze in the hallway. Sansa came around the opposite corner so fast she nearly lost her balance, and she gasped at the sight of him as her hand flew to her heart. Her handmaiden hurried into the hall behind her, screeching in horror from what she saw.

 

Sandor felt the heavy scowl on his face.

 

Turning away from them, he entered the washroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

 

The basin for washing one’s face was filled with water. It was clean, so Sandor scooped up two handfuls and splashed it on his face. He scrubbed his hair and scalp with hard nails. The water turned pink, and then it darkened to red. Somewhere behind him, he heard the door open with a soft click, but he kept scrubbing off the blood where it showed on his skin.

 

“ . . . Sandor?”

 

He ignored the familiar voice, and scrubbed.

 

The door closed with another click. Sansa walked a slow circle around him and came up to his right side. As he busied himself in silence, she kept calling his name softly to get his attention. He tuned her out until she said his name loud enough that he whirled on her.

 

“ _What?_ ” Sandor growled, and Sansa recoiled from him with such a look of fear on her face as he hadn’t seen from her in years.

 

That look was his fault. The inward stab of guilt came instantly. He heaved in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, and clenched his fists so hard that his nails drove into his palms and drew blood. Sandor closed his eyes and covered his face, his other hand gripping the rim of the wash basin.

 

He heard rummaging, and then Sansa’s voice call out to him again.

 

“Sandor, may I . . . ?”

 

Opening his eyes to look at her, he saw that she had a rag in her hand and held it upward. Sandor turned to her, and while the blood had been washed from his face, it covered his armor still. He saw Sansa swallow past a catch in her throat, and then she came to him.

 

Her hand shook as she pressed it to his face, wiping away what small marks still remained despite his efforts. Her hand lowered to his neck next, and then she placed the cloth down and walked to his side. Sansa carefully unbuckled the straps to his armor. She worked on it piece by piece until it was all removed and placed aside, and then she looked up at him. “Your tunic,” she said, but her voice wavered.

 

Sandor hauled his tunic over his head and threw it aside as well. Sansa looked downright terrified and her hands shook even worse, her fingers cold against his bare skin. She seemed to be checking him for wounds, her expression growing more and more confused when she saw none.

 

“It’s not my blood,” Sandor rasped, wishing it was. As if he thought the look on her face couldn’t get any worse, it did. Her head shot up, and her mouth fell open, and he thought he saw tears welling up in her eyes.

 

“Whose blood is it?” she asked.

 

“Nobody’s,” he answered. Her silence weighed heavy. “At least not anymore,” he finished in a low voice.

 

Sansa’s hand flew to her mouth, teardrops falling freely down her pink cheeks. She had never asked what he did for a living, but she ought to have known what he did best. How else did she expect him to pay for all these nice things he bought her? He did what he had to do. She ought to have known that.

 

He never had to come home looking like this before, but then again, he never had such a fuck up as this one either.

 

Sansa’s silent tears turned into weeping, and she hurried for the door. Sandor grabbed her, and she cried out in protest. “Sansa!” he barked, but she wouldn’t look at him, and he took her by the shoulders and shook her one good time to knock the sense back into her. “ _Look_ at me!”

 

She raised her blurry eyes to him, the reluctance clear on her face. He hated that look, hated how it made him feel. For an instant, however brief, they were back in King’s Landing and he was the monster again. Sandor opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. What did he say to her when she looked at him like that? His eyes pleaded for her to understand, but she didn’t understand at all, and she shook her head ferociously at him through her tears.

 

“No,” she babbled, “no, you killed a man—”

 

“It’s my job, Sansa—”

 

“To _kill_ people?”

 

“ _Yes_!” Sandor roared at her. “I kill if we’re attacked, and I kill thieves who try to steal things that don’t belong to them. This is what I was _hired_ for, Sansa. They know what I can do, and they needed me to do it, so I took the damn job.”

 

Suddenly, her eyes widened and the tears ceased to fall. Something he said caught her interest, and it wasn’t long until he found out.

 

“They?”

 

Damn it, he said too much. He never wanted her to find out. He never wanted her to know about this side of his life in their new city, what was meant to be a fresh start. The irony in that was tenfold. He had tried to protect her from it, but it was too late for that now. Sandor lived the same life he lived back in Westeros, only now he had a beautiful young woman to keep him trudging through the muck and the blood to get out on the other side.

 

Only he was beginning to wonder if he would ever make it to the other side.

 

“Sandor, who’s they?” Sansa repeated, regaining some of her composure. “I thought you only worked for Myron Messapi. Who . . . who else do you work for?”

 

Sandor struggled with whether or not he should tell her. Maybe he should shut his mouth before anything else came out of it, but his silence to her question only inflamed her more.

 

“Sandor, you will _tell_ me,” Sansa demanded of him, even though he was the one holding her.

 

He straightened his back, which made him tower over her again.

 

“One of the magisters,” he rasped. “Illyrio.”

 

Recognition dawned in her eyes. Sansa knew the magisters of Pentos by their positions only, so she knew they were the ruling class of the city. She also knew that meant they were the most powerful men of Pentos, and now she knew that Sandor worked for one of them.

 

“What,” Sansa asked, her voice wavering, “do you kill people for?”

 

The side of Sandor’s ruined mouth twitched. “To protect Myron and Illyrio’s assets, as well as Myron’s life.”

 

Her understanding seemed to grow. “Then, they were aware of your reputation in Westeros?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh,” Sansa breathed, and she swallowed again. “So, so you don’t . . . just kill people . . . ”

 

He saw what she was getting at. “No,” Sandor admitted, glad to see her calming down. “I accompany Myron on deals and trades as his bodyguard. I also oversee the transport of his, and Illyrio’s, goods. If anyone tries to ambush us to kill us and steal the goods, I use my sword on them.” It was the simplest of explanations he could give her, and he hoped it would be enough to sate her questions.

 

Her eyes gazed at the door. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded distant. “Do you kill many men?”

 

“Sometimes, yes. There are many dishonest men in this city.”

 

She looked at him then; or, rather, she looked at his chest. Her hand came up to touch it gently with her fingers. His bare skin tingled beneath the contact. “What happened this time,” she whispered, “that you came back covered in so much blood?”

 

“This time,” he said simply, “there were a lot of men.”

 

Sansa wrapped her arms around him, and he felt fresh tears fall against his chest. She cried as she hugged him, cried until her head ran hot, and he did not know what to do other than to hold her until she stopped. Eventually, Sansa ran out of tears, and he knew they couldn’t stay in the washroom all evening.

 

“Come on,” Sandor said, “let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

 

He led her out of the washroom and down the halls toward her room. When she sat herself on the foot of her bed, a white canopy above her, she lifted her chin to meet his questioning gaze. He wanted to ask if she was all right, but he couldn’t find the words to do it.

 

“What happens next time,” she ventured with a quiet voice, “when there are too many men, and you don’t come back?”

 

Sandor shook his head. “That won’t happen.”

 

“But what if it does?” Sansa pushed, twining her fingers together in her lap. “What happens to me then?”

 

“That won’t happen,” Sandor repeated more firmly, “and nothing will happen to you.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

The problem was she was right. Sandor got by on talent for a long time and luck on a few occasions, but the day would come when he would meet his match. He almost did on the fateful day in a tavern halfway across the world, and his match had been too many bottles of alcohol before the fight. He had been saved by the grace of another Stark with a grudge to make him suffer, who unknowingly saved his life with her reluctance to end it.

 

He’d have to thank her for that one day if she wasn’t dead already.

 

“I do know that,” he lied, and he did it for her sake. “I haven’t gone anywhere, and I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Sansa tried to smile at him, but it looked broken. It faltered from her face, and she looked down at her lap. With that, Sandor left her room to tend to the cleaning of his armor. Sansa would need some time alone to process all of what he had told her.

 

He was in the foyer an hour later, polishing the armor that had been cleaned of its stains, when Sansa came at last out of the shelter of her room. Sandor looked up and paused from his duties. Her cream-colored dress swayed low about her feet. Her hair, which had been pulled up in a neat bundle on her head, had some loose tendrils falling down around her face. She looked as though she wanted to say something, so Sandor kept his mouth shut and waited for her to speak on her own.

 

“It is not so bad,” she announced, “to protect your masters.”

 

Sandor raised his chin. He felt a scowl coming on at the word ‘masters,’ but otherwise his face displayed nothing out of the ordinary.

 

“Just promise me one thing.”

 

Sandor was wary of promises and vows. As a rule of thumb, he never made them. Men could change in a heartbeat, and there was nothing worse than being forced to obey a promise from a man who couldn’t obey it himself. Joffrey had been a monster, but he expected nothing more than that of the men who served him.

 

Sansa lived up to her promises, though, like the good little lady she was raised to be. Maybe this one time he could make an exception just for her. “What’s that?” he rasped. He might as well hear her out.

 

“That you will never kill a man simply on orders and only if your life, or someone else’s life, is in danger.”

 

It was a heavy promise to make, but he wanted to do right by her. He had to think about it for a moment. When the moment passed, he nodded his head. “I can do that,” he said, and Sansa finally smiled at him—a real, true smile. “Now, you promise me something.”

 

Sansa looked surprised. “What?”

 

“No more crying,” Sandor said in all seriousness, pointing at her with the rag he was using to polish the armor. “You talk to me. If something’s wrong, we talk. No more blubbering.”

 

This time it was her turn to mislike a word being said, but Sansa blushed with embarrassment instead of scowling like him.

 

“I gave you my word,” Sandor reminded her.

 

Sansa lowered her gaze to the floor and sighed softly, lifting her chin again to look him straight in the eyes.

 

“I promise.”


	5. One Black and One Yellow

_v._

 

Even in the tranquility of their manse, the whispers of the dragon queen reached them. Sandor had enough of kings and queens to last a lifetime, and he made no point to discuss the rumors floating throughout the city with Sansa. He ought to have known she would have heard them by now herself with all of her forays into the market, but he was still surprised when she brought it up before dinner.

 

Positioned in the window seat, Sansa was clothed in a thin, gauzy gown the color of cream that allowed the sunlight to pass its golden rays straight through it. For all the good it did her to cloth herself, she looked stark naked. Her firm, round breasts peaked with hardened nipples, but she remembered her modesty this morning long enough to put on smallclothes to cover the mound of hair between her legs.

 

Sandor drank in the sight more headily than the warm juice in his cup, though he wished she had abandoned all modesty and forgotten the smallclothes.

 

Her auburn hair was bounded around her head in twisted ribbons, loose tendrils falling to graze her shoulders. The dress was held up by a golden twist of cord around her neck. Sansa twisted one of the loose tendrils of hair about her finger as she gazed off through the open window. “Maybe we should go to her,” she pondered aloud, her voice as soft as the breeze that stirred her hair.

 

Sandor’s attention was brought roughly back into focus. “Who?”

 

“The Dragon Queen,” Sansa said, saying the name softly as if saying it too loud would bring the fire down on them in their own home. “They say she has three dragons and has conquered all of the slave cities with a vast army of eunuchs. She’s the last Targaryen. She will soon return to Westeros, if the rumors are true.” _I would_ , her voice betrayed beneath the surface, _if I had dragons_.

 

“I thought you had enough of war,” Sandor said. _I’ve had enough of war_ , is what he meant.

 

“Yes, but . . . to go home, wouldn’t that be nice?”

 

 _To go home_. And what was home to the likes of him? For Sansa, he knew it was Winterfell and snowy winters that sheltered the world in sheets of white and pale grey and glass gardens full of blossoming blue winter roses. Home for him was nothing more than a keep and some kennels, and too far south of Winterfell. _Too far south_ , he thought.

 

His face hardened to betray no emotions. “I’m tired of kings and queens,” Sandor said brusquely. “Best to be rid of them and make our life for ourselves.”

 

The silence seemed to stretch on forever until he looked at her, and her narrowed eyes were searching his face for the reasoning in his words, the truth lingering beneath the surface. She licked her parted lips nervously and spoke.

 

“ . . . Our life?”

 

 _Seven hells_ , he cursed in his head. Sansa would make something out of that, but the real difficulty was why he had said it that way in the first place. It wasn’t as if he had been thinking of her that way on purpose. Words were just words. They didn’t mean half the things people thought they meant. Only, in this case, they probably meant more than he ever would admit out loud to her.

 

“What did you mean, ‘our life?’” asked Sansa, rising from the window seat. She took the empty cushion beside him on the ornate bench, her sheer state of dress and close proximity unnerving him so much he leaned forward as she leaned back.

 

“We live together, don’t we?”

 

“Yes, but . . . ”

 

Something made Sansa relent her questions, and whatever words she had been thinking dropped away from her lips unspoken. She relaxed her shoulders and wrapped one of her arms around his own and pressed into him. Sandor felt her breast against his arm, and his cock stirred at the touch. He desired her, he knew, but Sansa did not desire him. He would never force her, but he would relish these few moments like this with her.

 

“Enough of dragons,” she agreed sweetly. “It’s time for dinner, and I am as hungry as a beast.”

 

Sansa did not bring up the dragon queen in the following weeks. Her smiles and laughter belied any sorrow he thought to rest beneath the surface, but Sandor couldn’t be sure. Out of fear of losing her, he went to Sansa’s room one day in a frenzy to tell her they would seek out the dragon queen if that was her wish, but she had been bathing in the washroom next to hers with the door cracked open to let the heat escape, and the words caught in his throat as he passed before the door.

 

She ran her hands over glistening skin, head tipped back, as soft moans escaped her mouth. Sandor had never seen her do such a thing, never thought she even knew how to touch herself, but there she was under steam and the low light of evening sun, pleasuring herself. His cock stiffened to the hardness of a steel rod in his breeches as he watched her toes curl tightly and her breath hitch in release. Her quick breaths and final, choked moan broke him from his reverie, and he left swiftly to go to his private chambers and pleasure himself until he spilled his seed over his hand while he imagined it being in her cunt.

 

He convinced himself it was just his imagination, but Sansa’s clothing began to grow smaller and more revealing as the days went by. She laughed loudly, leaned over often to give a full eyeful of her ample cleavage, and brushed against him as much as their time together allowed. Once she even sat in his lap when she went to hug him and when Sansa scooted, the friction caused his britches to tighten almost painfully. He lifted her then, and she giggled as she put her arms around his neck while he carried her. He scowled the whole time, but only to fight off the ungrateful will to smile down at her.

 

Sandor began to find gifts left on his bed from her. Sansa made him shirts and breeches, cloaks and gloves. They were always neatly wrapped and tied together with straps of silk, one black and one yellow. When she left for the market to go shopping with her guards, sometimes she would return with other gifts for him. Sometimes it was food, and sometimes it was an exotic object of interest but not too much coin.

 

Sansa was careful with money like she was careful with everything else.

 

The desire to ask Sansa why she had been bringing him gifts was overwhelming, but Sandor was afraid of upsetting her. If she wished to bring him gifts, who was he to ask her why or say she should stop? He took them grudgingly, wondering what it all meant, but wearing them proudly. It brought the brightest of smiles to her face.

 

“I have something for you,” he told her brusquely one day. Sansa looked surprised, but accepted the wrap from his hands and began to unfold it. Whenever he bought her things, she was always right there to pick them out. This time, though, it was different.

 

She gasped as a grey silk gown slipped out and spilled over her knees to pool in silver at her feet. The dress was fashioned in the local style, but its samite was slashed with cloth-of-white and a cloth-of-grey so fine it shimmered silver. The colors of her house, but the gown lacked its sigil. That would have been too dangerous, even out here across the Narrow Sea.

 

There were tears in her eyes. “It’s beautiful . . . ”

 

He grunted at her acceptance of the gift. Sansa rose from her seat and, placing the gown aside, reached up to kiss his cheek. Only her lips did not touch his cheek, they touched his mouth, and her hand rested against his cheek. Though every instinct of his wanted to respond to the kiss, he didn’t. It was chaste, a brush of lips to lips, and nothing more. When she pulled away, Sandor’s eyes bore into her.

 

“Why did you kiss me?” he asked.

 

Sansa seemed to smile, albeit nervously. “Because I had realized, long ago, that I didn’t remember you kissing me . . . I . . . I had only wished you had.”

 

“You were drunk—”

 

“No, not that night, but I had kissed you then too. I wanted to know how it would feel. I wanted to know if would feel as I had imagined it. I wanted to know if you would kiss me back . . . ”

 

His face hardened. “Don’t play me with, girl.”

 

She looked hurt. Sansa pulled her hand away. “I am not playing.”

 

“I _hurt_ you that night—”

 

“You were rough, yes,” Sansa said tersely. He could see her putting up her icy wall of courtesy again to protect herself as she had in the past. “Rough when I hoped you would be gentle, but you were drunk too. Wine . . . does things to men, my mother said.”

 

“Do I look gentle to you?” he sneered at her, harsher than he meant to be.

 

Sansa’s eyes hardened to ice. “You have been, many times. But I suppose now is not one of those times.” She stalked off without him, leaving the silk gown lying on the chair. It slowly spilled itself onto the floor, a puddle of silver and pearl-colored blood.


	6. We Can't Go Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in updating this. It's been a busy two weeks for me! I hope you all enjoy this update. I'll get cracking on writing more. :)

_vi._

 

Sansa took her meals alone and tried her best to avoid him. Sandor could not erase her words from his head. He would go to work, return, endure, and repeat the cycle again the next day. Her silence was vexing, but he hadn’t given her much of an option to do much else, and her lack of presence became more painful each day. He drank himself into a few stupors, roaring at the servants whenever they did something or nothing at all to displease him. The servants had no choice but to deal with it, but Sansa wore her displeasure openly on her face whenever she witnessed his horrible behavior towards them.

 

He grabbed Sansa’s arm in the hall once during one of his stupors, and she slapped him hard across the face. Before she could face his ire, she ran from him and barred the door to her chambers. Sandor banged his fist on the door, demanding her to open it, but she yelled at him to go away. “I’ll climb up your window to get you, girl!” he threatened, but it was an empty threat. She never opened the door, and he never climbed the window.

 

After some weeks, the ire became something else. Sandor sat before a crackling fire in the hearth, one that was rarely lit but during the coldest of nights, and drank a hot mulled wine with spices of cinnamon and nutmeg to warm him down to his toes. He had become acutely aware of the sensation of regret he had been feeling ever since that kiss, and the fear of losing Sansa turned into anger for his own lack of action.

 

He could not accept the idea of Sansa loving him, and his denial became hatred burning hot in his chest, but the flame had all but died and left a pile of cool ashes in his heart. He would rather be a fool, he decided, to love her and admit it aloud, than to lose her all the same because he could not.

 

As the flames from the fire danced a reflection across his eyes and he pulled another swing from his hot wine, Sansa emerged from one of the rooms wrapped in a long silk robe the color of soft blue. He looked over and saw her. Sandor stared at her like she was the only star in a sea of blackness, lighting his only way home. Sansa glanced up and caught his intense gaze, freezing in place.

 

Her face faltered from stern and icy to nervous and uncertain, and her pale arms circled herself in a tight hug. Their eyes met for what seemed like an eternity, though it might have only been a moment, still and quiet across the hall. Then, the moment was broken, and Sansa schooled her face into a perfect look of blankness.

 

“Goodnight, my lord,” she ventured, tonelessly.

 

Sandor was not going to let her walk away from him again, but he knew harshness would not work with her, so he stood up and spoke softly. “Sansa,” he rasped, and in her name was all the pleading he could muster without sounding weak and less of a man.

 

Her shoulders seemed to lose their frigidity. When she did not turn to leave, he began to walk toward her. Sandor half feared she would flee from him again, but Sansa stood her ground with her chin held high. Somewhere along the way, he had put his cup down. She was a beautiful fool or he was a foul-looking one, but he couldn’t make up his mind about which one made more sense.

 

“Why me?” he asked, realizing his throat was scratchy and dry despite all of the wine he’d been drinking.

 

Sansa seemed to lift her chin a littler higher. “I could ask you the same, ser.”

 

“The answer would not be the same, little bird.”

 

“I’m _not_ a little bird,” Sansa snapped at him. “I am a maiden _flowered_.”

 

He laughed like steel scraping over stone. “And I’m no ser.” Her shoulders lost more of their tension at his response. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

 

Sansa’s silence was more profound than any words she could have spoken, and she stepped closer in the darkness. He smelled the scent of her, warm vanilla and musky flowers. She no longer used the sweet fragrances of a little girl. She had become no stranger to touching him, and her hand was cool and soft against his skin. She liked to touch both sides of his face, the intact and the ruined.

 

“Is this what you want, Sansa?” he rasped, turning his face to show her the scarred flesh she had once feared and could not bear to look at, but she looked at it without the slightest expression of fear or discomfort now.

 

“No,” she whispered, and the word was almost a wound, but she pressed her hand flat against his rough leather jerkin at the place above his heart. “This . . . ” Her eyes looked down to his chest before rising back to his face. “This is what I want,” she murmured, looking in his eyes. “This is what I have always wanted.”

 

Sandor laid his hand upon hers and grasped her wrist, not ungentle, and pulled it away. His other hand twined in her hair and drew her close. Sansa’s breath smelled of mint and cloves, and her lips were soft and yielding. He spent most of his time fighting off his urges, but Westeros was a world away and Sansa had long since blossomed into a woman. She parted her lips, and he deepened the kiss. Though half his mouth was ruined, he still could feel her lips on his and the pleasant sensation it brought him. She moaned against his mouth.

 

 _So, this_ , he thought, _this is what she wants_.

 

He’d never been with a woman gently. Only rough fucks with whores, and even then, they wouldn’t look at his face and never dared kiss him or offer it. Some part of him knew what gentleness was, though, and he knew that was what Sansa wanted of him. So he was careful with her, and every touch was slow and soft. Though forever seemed to come and go, they were still standing in the hallway, cloaked in darkness, when he pulled away from her.

 

Her eyes looked up at him, near black and glistening in the dying firelight. She was touching his face. She was always touching his face. Sansa gazed over all of his features, her fingers following her eyes. “I think only of you,” she murmured, as if it were the answer to every question in the world.

 

“Why?” he asked.

 

Sansa’s eyes met his, and for a moment she looked unsure how to answer. “Well, I suppose after all this time you have always taken care of me with kindness and with . . . without expecting me to . . . give you something in return.” Sansa swallowed against a nervous lump in her throat. “You care,” she added with a sudden and unwavering conviction. “When everyone else tried to use me, you sought to protect me. I trust you in a way that I have trusted none since my family, since my fath—” Sansa froze on the word before she could finish it. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she began to sob.

 

Sandor took her into his arms to comfort her in what way he could as the sobs racked her body. It was not what he expected, but he didn’t mind. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her to her chamber, lowering her carefully onto her bed. When he made to pull away, Sansa clung harder.

 

“No, please,” she begged.

 

He lied with her on the bed, and Sansa buried herself against his side, clutching so hard her nails bit painfully into his tunic. Eventually, the sobs subsided and her breathing evened out beside him. Still, he did not leave. He rested his chin upon her hair, breathing in the clean scent of it, and allowed himself to succumb to sleep with Sansa in his arms.

 

When he woke in the morning, she was gone from the bed. Sandor prepared for the day, dressing himself in his attire and gear, and he didn’t concern himself with trying to find Sansa. She would find him when he came back. He was sure of that. As he buckled on his sword belt, he thought about last night’s events. He left the manse knowing that when he returned things would be different.

 

His only concern was how.

 

Come evening fall, the dim sun sank low in a sky bruised with purple and black. Sandor entered the manse covered in dirt and sweat, muscles hard and tense from a long day of work, and his eyes caught Sansa on the divan.

 

Sandor froze midstep.

 

Sansa was draped in nothing but a sheer iridescent cloth-of-grey robe bound by a single silver sash around the waist. As she rose upward in a smooth motion, the cloth shimmered in the moonlight like a thousand twinkling stars pinned to her skin. She approached him, and the lower half of the robe parted against a slight breeze. Sandor’s mouth went dry, his right hand gripping for the pommel of his sword hilt.

 

Without a single word spoken aloud, she held out her hand to him. For a long while he only looked at her, not raising either hand to take hers or making a single move at all. Sansa, having no choice but to embolden herself, reached out and took his hand. Sandor did not try to avoid her, nor remove himself from her soft grasp, and she led him through the manse down the blue-washed corridors beneath the moonlight.

 

Sandor followed her lead, unable to do much else, and soon found himself entering the threshold of Sansa’s bedroom chamber behind her. His heart quickened its beat, and he glanced restlessly around the room like a man measuring the situation before a battle. She let go of his hand, and Sandor cast his gaze back to Sansa.

 

She pulled the pins out of her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders in a careless tumble. Like a statue he was frozen until she reached for his hand and placed it gently at the knot of the sash against her belly.

 

Sansa was trembling, he realized. Her hands were shaking as she had guided his to her sash, and he could see the heavy rise and fall of her chest beneath the robe. Her nipples were taut and erect, her breasts heaving with each deep breath. He drank in the sight before him like a dying man desperate for air, and his hand enclosed into a fist around the knot of her sash.

 

“Sansa . . . ” he warned, a sharp edge to his voice. _If we do this, we can’t go back_ , he thought. He couldn’t say it, but he knew she understood what he meant without needing the words. Sansa who stood before him now wasn’t the naïve little girl from King’s Landing that was afraid of anything and everything in the world. She hadn’t been for a long time.

 

Sandor guarded that girl and protected her for years, and somewhere along the way she had changed into something else—a woman.

 

“Sandor,” Sansa whispered, and she sighed then suddenly, looking down and shaking her head. Tilting her chin up again, she seemed to compose herself enough to look regal as she gazed upon him with an assured steadiness. “I wish to have you as a lady has her lord, as a husband has his wife, as a lover . . . has her . . . ”

 

Sandor growled deep in his throat and tore at the sash. Many things happened at once. Sansa gasped. The sash fell to the floor. Her robe fell open, and he pulled her flush against him with an arm around her waist. His other hand, still bearing a dirty leather glove, clasped the back of her head. Her grey-blue eyes lured him into waters deep as a stormy sea, but it was calm at the center. _If we do this, we can’t go back_.

 

“Please,” Sansa breathed, her eyes an ocean of lust, turmoil, and needs deeper than either could satisfy.

 

Her mouth parted like warm waters against his ruined lips, and a hunger began to boil deep inside his belly. _If we do this, we can’t go back_. His kiss was as hungry as it was unforgiving, rough with years of pent up desire, but Sansa yielded to it all the same, gasping for breath in between and moaning against him. “Yes,” she said, then, “Please—” and “ _Oh_.”

 

Her arms hurried to find his neck and coiled themselves there, bringing her closer to him, but his armor was in the way. He took one hand away from her to rip the damn shit off. Sandor tore the buckles rather than undo them, and Sansa drew in a sharp breath of shock against his lips with each rip and snap. _If we do this, we can’t go back_. When he was down to his tunic and breeches, he walked Sansa against the bed and her knees buckled. She caught him, and he lifted her easily.

 

He laid her on the bed and tore off his tunic, throwing it aside. Her robe splayed open, and she was naked as her name day beneath it. His eyes roved over the perfect roundness of her teats, the smooth skin pale as milk, the indentions of her hips, and the mound of auburn hair lower still. She was beautiful. She was perfect.

 

Sandor looked up to her eyes staring back at him. _If we do this, we can’t go back_. He descended on her body; his hand grasped her breast, his mouth taking in her nipple to tease it. He kissed and caressed her until she was shuddering beneath him, and then he slid his hand down her body and close to the area between her legs. Sansa clutched her legs together, nervous and afraid despite her ardor. Her face became a mask in the dark, eyes downcast in some kind of fear.

 

She was still a maid, he reminded himself.

 

“I won’t hurt you, Sansa,” he rasped, and she gazed up. Sansa’s lips tightened for a moment, but then she exhaled a soft breath and nodded slowly. He nudged her thighs apart with his palm, and she let him. His fingers found her entrance, and he pushed one into the slickness and heat of her arousal. Shy though she was, she was plenty stirred by his touches. Sandor leaned down to kiss her as he slid his finger in and out.

 

Sansa’s moans began to come in rhythm with his hand, and she bucked against him. He pulled back long enough to see a red flush had crept up her face, and her eyes were clouded with desire. His hand was wet to the knuckles and warm, but he wanted to feel her in other ways. He removed his hand and she made a noise of disappointment until she saw he was unlacing his breeches.

 

Sansa watched openly, her pink lips parted in a perfect half circle. When his cock was free of his breeches, he heard a sharp intake of breath. Sansa fell back against the pillows and took deep breaths, her whole chest rising and falling with the motion.

 

“Sansa,” he said, and it was only her name, but it was sweet on his tongue.

 

She glanced at him from where she lay. He reached for her hand and gently guided it to his manhood. She touched him lightly at first, her hand cool against his hot skin. It sent ripples of desire through his muscles with each touch. Sansa closed her cool fingers around his shaft and began to slowly stroke it.

 

“It’s so soft . . . ” she mused aloud, sounding amazed.

 

Sandor chuckled. “And hard.” Her dark eyes cut to his. “Go on,” he said. “Do what you like.” Sansa continued to stroke him until he groaned, and he slid a finger back into her wet cunt, moving in rhythm with her strokes until they both were heaving from it. “ _Enough_ ,” he growled at last, and he leaned over her body and positioned his cock at her sopping wet entrance.

 

When he pushed in, he felt her natural resistance. It was solely unfamiliar to him in that he had never experienced it in a woman before. Sansa clutched him helplessly, her arms wrapped too taut around his neck as her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders. She tensed all over, releasing a small whimper of pain instead of crying out. He stilled himself to allow her some moments of comfort against the pain, but her sounds were hard to tell apart. Pleasure and pain, both seemed alike in his desire, but she did not stop him or ask him to stop.

 

He thrust inside her, and she moaned aloud, fingers loosening her hold on him. Sandor tried to be gentle, but he soon lost himself in the feel of her cunt and his eagerness to have her, to possess her, and he fucked her with wild abandon in each thrust, gripping the sheets beneath them. Sansa’s soft moans turned to cries of pleasure and perhaps sometimes pain, and she beseeched the gods above between every other sound out of her throat.

 

He reached his peak and spent himself on her thigh rather than in her womb. He wouldn’t put a bastard in her belly. If she was to have children, she would have them the decent way that was expected of ladies like her. Sandor rolled over so as not to crush her with his weight and pulled her toward him with his arm. Sansa laid her head on his chest as well as one of her hands. He felt her trace idle patterns with her fingers. It tickled, but it was nice.

 

Sandor closed his eyes, feeling an intense peace come over him. _If we do this, we can’t go back_ , the voice had said to him. It said it yet again in the darkness when all was done, but he barely heard it past the stillness that flooded throughout his veins, for he had never felt such a thing as peace before this.

 

“I love you,” a small voice whispered softly as he drifted off to sleep.


	7. Flowers on the Veil

_vii._

 

Sandor awoke the next morning with the smell of her hair and skin surrounding him and her soft body still beside him. He had to leave for the day as usual, but he covered her with the sheet and brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead as she slept. He was a formidable warrior and a killer with a heart as black as ink, if the tales were to be believed, but he was gentle with her and he cared for Sansa in his own way.

 

She came to him the next night in his chamber, and he guided her on top of him. Her kisses were soft and probing, but they seared his lips all the same and he drank of her hungrily. Sandor made little work of her sleeping shift, and it wasn’t long until Sansa was sinking down on his cock with the assistance of his hands on her hips. He lifted her then brought her down again, and she gasped each time he sheathed himself in her, a look of ache, hurt, and ecstasy on her face as she melted into him.

 

He meant to pull out, but Sandor lost himself in Sansa and spilled his seed within her. She lied atop him afterwards, her head against his chest, unwilling to move. He felt his seed trickling down, his cock softening inside of her. Eventually, they took comfort beside one another and feel asleep in each other’s arms.

 

Very little was said during the day of their nightly trysts. They spoke the same as ever, but warmer it seemed, and they touched more frequently. Sandor no longer made an effort to keep his distance. Sometimes he watched her bathe, and sometimes he joined her baths, and sometimes he watched her dress, and other times they fucked at random if the mood took them. When she couldn’t decide between the cloth-of-blue dress and the cloth-of-green dress, he decided that for her by stripping her half-naked and taking her against the armoire.

 

Her back was bruised afterwards. When he showed concern over the marks, she smiled at him over her shoulder with the shyness of a maid. “They were worth it,” Sansa said coyly, blushing as she looked away from him, but he was not so rough with her as that again.

 

Sansa did everything that a woman to wife did for her husband, but they were not husband and wife. While Sansa never voiced any displeasure over it, Sandor couldn’t help but wonder if Sansa wasn’t hiding something from him. He often recalled her previous talks of marriage long before her feelings came to light, and he wondered now if she had been talking about him and her all along while he had supposed she wanted some young ruffian.

 

Perhaps she was afraid of what he might say, so she never said anything at all. Either way, it bothered Sandor and he wanted to know the truth. As they were lying together one night, Sandor stroked Sansa’s back with his fingers and found the courage to broach the subject with her.

 

“Sansa?” he asked.

 

Her voice was but a whisper. “Yes?”

 

“You said not long ago you thought about marriage.” Sansa tensed up in his arms, a temporary but noticeable reaction. His hand stilled against her shoulder. “Do you still think of marriage?” he asked, not unkindly. She must have noticed his tone, for she relaxed against him and her arm curled around his middle.

 

“Sometimes,” she answered in a quiet voice, “but if you do not . . . ”

 

Sandor squeezed her shoulder, and he leaned into her hair. He held her close, and thought of all the ways he could answer that question. “I think only of your happiness,” he rasped.

 

“Yes, then,” she said, nervous and hurried. “Yes, I do . . . ”

 

Looking back on it, he did not remember how he had asked her, but seven days later they were united in a small ceremony in Myron Messapi’s private garden. Though the preparations were few, it was the most nerve-wracking moment of Sandor’s life. It accumulated at the end of a path of tossed flower petals over rugs of silver and gold thread, ending before the feet of a septon from the Faith of the Seven.

 

It was the only religion Sandor ever knew, and the Old Gods of Sansa’s father did not exist in Essos. Sansa preferred the Faith of the Seven, though, and so in the end it was the only choice that made sense for either of them. The marriage words were spoken and vows were made, and Sandor felt his heart race inside of his chest worse than during any battle, any war, or any fight. Marriage had not been anything he ever expected for himself in this life of battle and bloodshed, but knowing he could have it at last along with a woman’s love was enough to put him on edge worse than any sword in his face. Losing his life was one thing; it never bothered him that he might one day die, but he was a married man now, which made it matter a great deal more.

 

Gifts were given after the ceremonial rite, and a small feast was held in their honor. A flock of little girls threw handfuls of flower petals onto Sansa, who laughed and held her head high, her hair and veil catching most of the falling flora. Sandor had never seen her more beautiful than in those moments with the sun at her back, the flowers strewn about her hair, and the grey silk flowing from her shoulders.

 

“Are you happy, then?” he asked her as she finally escaped the crowd and came to sit beside him, and she grinned at his question as if the answer to that was the most obvious thing in the world.

 

“Yes, of course I’m happy,” Sansa said, and she placed her hand on top of his to give it a squeeze. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sandor said, shaking the question away. “Thought I’d ask you.”

 

He felt her hand gently against his cheek, and she turned his face with a slow deliberation. When his eyes caught hers, Sansa smoothed away a stray lock of his hair and cupped his chin. “When I was younger, I always thought I would fall in love with a beautiful prince and marry him and bear a bundle of babies who would look just like him.” Her smile faltered, her eyes growing dark and misty.

 

“Only that beautiful prince turned out to be a monster,” Sansa continued quietly, “and his face was the ugliest thing in the world to me. The most dreadful, horrible thing I’d ever seen, and I thought . . . I thought once your face was dreadful and horrible, but I was wrong. You were kind and good, and you tried to protect me and teach me the truth of the world. Cruel, yes, but honest. I was blind, but you made me see.”

 

Sansa leaned forward, laying a gentle kiss against the good side of his face, and then she turned to the other side of his face and laid a kiss gently on the ruined flesh. When she pulled back, she was smiling at him. “I know what matters now,” she said, and she took his hand in hers, “and nothing would make me happier.”

 

Sandor found himself clutching her hand back with a force he did not mean to use, and the tightness in his jaw was loosened with his grip as he became mindful of the stinging behind his eyes. He stared forward, pursed his lips, and said no more.

 

The moments of peace did not last forever, though. The Dragon Queen had not been idle, and news reached the city a few days after the wedding of her return to Westeros with her dragons, of the Imp at her side, and the legion at her back. Sansa was afraid of the rumors, but she did not say why. Sandor could only guess. The Imp probably thought himself still wedded to her, and Sansa most likely feared having to return to him.

 

With the Dragon Queen at his side and three dragons, who would be able to tell him no?

 

Sandor’s heart hardened with each passing day as Sansa’s sadness grew and her silence and fear persisted even into their marriage bed. It seemed what was meant to bring them the greatest happiness and pleasure passed a shadow even greater over them. Sandor wanted nothing but to make things better, but Sansa spent more time alone than with him and the garden became her retreat. He watched her from afar and wondered how he would be able to break through this new wall so unlike and yet so familiar to her previous one.

 

“He will come for me,” Sansa said so softly, sitting upon their bed, and she pulled her robes tighter about her. Sandor’s jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth together. If the Imp came for her, he’d kill him and every damn eunuch standing with the little devil.

 

It chanced that one day a certain visitor came by the manse to wish them well as a newly wedded couple, and he arrived on a litter and big and as extravagant as himself. Illyrio Mopatis was his name, and he was a fat man with a forked yellow beard, too much grease around his mouth from eating, and a dozen or more jeweled rings on his chubby fingers. He smiled in a way that Sandor had never liked despite the few times he had chanced to meet him, for Illyrio’s smile was sweet and yet as sour as curdled milk.

 

Illyrio grinned at Sandor, and even his teeth looked yellow. “Marriage life is treating you well, I hope,” he said, inviting himself into the manse. “You will forgive my intrusion. I was unable to attend the wedding, and I felt terribly ashamed for my absence. You’ve been such a wonderful addition to our Pentoshi streets. I’ll be sad to see you leave when you take your young, beautiful wife back to Westeros.”

 

Sandor’s head whipped around with the force of a startled dog, baring its teeth for a growl. “What do you mean?” he asked, tense and aggressive all at once.

 

“Well, I thought you’d heard,” Illyrio elaborated, bearing the semblance of false confusion as he sat down on the divan. It creaked under his weight. “The late Lord Eddard Stark’s son Rickon Stark has been found, and he is alive and well. He has been appointed the Lord of Winterfell, in fact. Lord Stark had made an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen upon her return to Westeros, thus securing the safety of the Stark bloodline . . . and all his remaining familial relations.” Illyrio’s smile was rich with gloating pleasure, his beady eyes glinting.

 

“This will be wonderful news for Sansa, I’m sure,” Illyrio continued, patting his knees as he looked around. “By the way, where is the blushing bride?”

 

Sandor growled dangerously low. “What do you bloody want with her?” He was too angry to bother being shocked that Illyrio knew who Sansa was, but he was more than concerned with why the fat man was interested in her. “What brings you to my door, talking like this about her?”

 

Illyrio’s seemingly friendly smile turned wormy in less than a heartbeat. “I pay for these fine walls and doors, my friend. Please take care in remembering that,” he warned. His expression switched back to its jovial façade almost immediately. “I am merely interested in her welfare. The girl seems very distressed and unhappy here, and I imagine she longs for home. She can go now, and so can you. I can lend you a ship, and give you both safe passage back to Westeros.”

 

Sandor was silent. He thought of the life he and Sansa had built here, far from the world that they both used to know. He thought of the manse, of Sansa gliding through its halls and corridors like a ray of sunlight carried on the wind, and of all the memories they had made here, and not in Westeros.

 

Still, he owed her enough to tell her the truth of it. She deserved to know that her brother was still alive, that she still had some family left to her, and some semblance of the life she used to live awaited her back home if she wished to go. The thing was Sandor couldn’t imagine her saying no. He couldn’t imagine she would not try and reclaim what she used to be before the war and the lions tore her whole family and home to pieces.

 

She ran because everything she once knew had been taken from her, ripped savagely away from her grasp, but here was the opportunity to earn it back.

 

According to Illyrio, the northern lords rallied around Lord Rickon Stark and were preparing for an attack on the Dreadfort by the decree of the Stark boy. Many said the counsel was given by his advisors, but the seed was planted by his bastard half-brother, the renegade Lord Commander Jon Snow. Rickon Stark was a mere child in body but he was a Stark in name, and he was the heir to a bloodline thousands of years old.

 

Sandor did not have to ask Sansa to know what it meant.

 

They were going home.


	8. Tower Torn Asunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing a Jon POV with an outside take on Sandor and Sansa's relationship. I hope you all enjoy this very different update! ;)

_viii._

 

The tower had been a magnificent structure once. Built of white-washed stone, it shone in the fading sun as if bespeckled with a thousand glittering diamonds, but the years had darkened it to grey and sodden brown with soot, dirt, and the trappings of dead vines. Its battlement suffered a tragic blow that left a quarter of it in ruins on the ground, scattered boulders overgrown with green and grey moss, while cobwebs and ivy sheltered the windows from the elements. It was a sad and ghostly place as wretched as it was beautiful.

 

“We will camp here for the night,” Jon Snow said, dismounting his horse.

 

The way up was treacherous. The stairs had crumbled away at places from rain, snow, and disuse, and in the dark even the torches weren’t enough to see the pitfalls in the steps. He heard curses from the man following behind him several times and nearly twisted his own ankle once. The topmost tower room was dark but surprisingly clean for a fort long abandoned, and Jon unslung his bag and sleeping roll and hung the torch in a webbed and half-broken sconce.

 

He set up tallow candles and lit each one before putting out the torch. Less light was less unwanted attention, and the candles emitted very little of the former than a torch. Jon surveyed his companions and wondered not for the first time how he had gotten himself to this point.

 

No longer Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he had been removed from his position and vows by King Stannis after his men had attempted to murder him. Lady Melisandre had been right about her vision, which he realized all too late. _I should have listened to her_. He might have still been Lord Commander if he had only taken her words to heart.

 

His survival was miraculous. By all rights, Jon should have died from all of the holes pierced in his flesh by those knives. He had been as white as a ghost upon the snow in a pool of red ruin, but the sorceress must have saved his life. She claimed no hand in it, but he did not believe her. She was hiding something. The red lady hid many things, and her well of secrets was a dark and deep treacherous path beneath the surface.

 

He had been abed for weeks, and then he limped for five more, and when he was well enough, all hell broke loose in the North because of his actions. Jon had left the Watch with nary a look back after the betrayal of his brothers and took a heavy score of wildings to Winterfell, successfully sacking it with King Stannis, for they had each come upon Winterfell at once from both sides and the Boltons stood not a chance. Lord Bolton was killed in the fray. The Bastard, though, had gotten away.

 

Jon Snow now served Lord Rickon of Winterfell, his once lost but returned little brother. When word came to them from the east of their sister Sansa still alive, Lord Rickon dispatched Jon to meet her on the shores east of White Harbor and bring her home safely.

 

Sansa stood before him now dressed in heavy wool cloak of dark blue fastened at the neck with its hood drawn up, black gloves, and a winter dress that matched her cloak. Hulking beside her was an unlikely companion and bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, who once served as Joffrey Baratheon’s sword shield and fled the service of the Lannisters during the Battle of Blackwater.

 

Jon had been relieved, of course, to finally see his sister safe and whole as she emerged from a small ship on the cold eastern shore. Sansa had run to him with a hug, and Jon gathered her up in his arms and swung her around like he used to do with Arya because it was something Arya would have done, running toward him like that. It was not like Sansa, who used to serve him cool indifference in their youth because he was the bastard and she was the highborn. It had been a pleasant change to share that with her when he had expected less from her. It had brought biting tears to his eyes, and he cared not if she saw them. Sansa’s cheeks were stained as well, but her happy grin erased away all of his worries.

 

However, he did not reserve the same relief for her companion. Jon knew him by reputation only, and there was little good to be found in the Hound’s tale. He was not his brother, Gregor Clegane, but the Hound was a bloodthirsty man in his own right and his service to the Lannisters would be a stain on his character in the eyes of the Northmen. Jon still had trouble wrapping his mind about this business, but he would ask his questions in due time.

 

Despite her warm welcome for Jon, Sansa seemed more comfortable at Clegane’s side than at his own, and she sat down across from Jon instead of next to him, while Clegane took a seat beside Sansa. Jon felt his jaw tighten up, but otherwise kept his thoughts to himself. Sansa was alive and well, and somehow Clegane held some responsibility for that. Whatever Clegane’s reasons had been, they had kept his sister safe. For now, that was all that mattered.

 

They ate a ration of hard bread with honey to soften it, dried meats, and berries in relative silence. It seemed to Jon that Sansa ate more than Clegane and him combined, but he said nothing on it. She was most likely famished from her journey across the Narrow Sea in this wretched weather that delayed their ship longer than necessary. Jon didn’t realize it, but he was staring at Sansa. She caught his gaze, a berry halfway to her mouth, and froze to stare back.

 

“Sansa,” Jon finally asked, “where have you been all these years?”

 

Sansa’s face fell into an indeterminable expression, and Clegane looked at her as well. Jon made a mental note of this, and realized Clegane had barely said two words since he met them by the ship east of White Harbor.

 

“It’s a long story,” Sansa began with the smallest hint of nervousness in her voice, “but I suppose we have nothing but time.”

 

“It’s been four years since you left for King’s Landing,” Jon said. He tried to smile at her. “I don’t expect a short story.”

 

Sansa smiled back, visibly relaxing, and settled into her tale. “I was at King’s Landing until Joffrey’s wedding day,” she told him. “Ser Dontos promised to help me escape for a long time, and he said it was to happen on that night, so I followed his instructions very carefully. A ship had been prepared for my departure, and when we reached the docks I discovered his instructions had come from Lord Petyr Baelish. Ser Dontos asked for his payment for delivering me, and Petyr . . . his men killed Ser Dontos.”

 

Jon felt a heavy frown crease his face. “I am sorry you had to witness that, Sansa.”

 

Sansa tried to smile at him. “It’s all right,” she said. “It was a long time ago.” Sansa’s hand strayed to her belly as she spoke, and she rubbed it gently in a circular motion of comfort. Jon thought she must have eaten too much.

 

“Petyr spirited me away to the Fingers,” Sansa continued. “He said I must take on a new identity to hide myself, so I became his bastard daughter. He wed my Aunt Lysa. She recognized me, but we all lied and said my name was Alayne Stone. It was the only way I was safe. They betrothed me as Alayne Stone to cousin Robert. Aunt Lysa grew jealous, though, because Petyr kissed me one day, but I never wanted him to. I was building a snow castle, and he came to help me. Aunt Lysa saw him kiss me and accused me of trying to steal him from her, and she tried to push me out of the Moon Door . . . to . . . to kill me.” Sansa’s voice trembled. “She called me a thief, like my mother, her own _sister_ —”

 

Sansa stopped talking and covered her mouth, looking as though she might cry. Her other hand clutched at her belly tightly, and she looked up at Clegane. Jon glanced at him as well. Clegane’s eyes were like a fire blazing with rage. Jon wondered what that meant, but he turned his attention back to his sister. “Go on,” he urged softly.

 

Sansa composed herself with a few deep breaths. “Petyr came in time to stop it, and he saved me, but Aunt Lysa began to rant about how it was she who poisoned Jon Arryn with Tears of Lys. She claimed it was at Petyr’s behest and that Petyr had also told her to write to my mother to tell her it was the Lannisters.”

 

The bottom of Jon’s stomach dropped out. It was as if her words had opened up a cold black pit inside of him. “It was never the Lannisters, then,” Jon said, and it was more of a statement than a question. “It was Lady Lysa and Littlefinger.”

 

Sansa nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose,” she offered in a quiet voice. “Petyr never admitted or denied it, but he tried to calm her down. It seemed to work, but then he shoved her out of the window and she fell. He blamed it on Marillion, her singer, and everyone believed it. I repeated the story as well. He was the only person to protect me from the Queen, so I refused to let myself think about it too much. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything about it.”

 

Clegane’s fists curled and unfurled at his sides, but Jon said nothing.

 

“He then sought to marry me to Harry Hardyng,” Sansa said. “He was the next heir to the Vale past cousin Robert. He said Robert was sickly and wouldn’t live long, and it was best that I did not marry him. We left the Eyrie, but once we went below a man captured me. He was one of Petyr’s hedge knights, but his idea was to sell me to the Queen . . . ”

 

“That was when I found her,” Clegane cut in with a rasp, finishing the story for Sansa. Jon turned sharply to look at him as he spoke. The Hound’s ruined face was horrible in the dim firelight, but there seemed in it a kind of softness as he talked of Sansa. “I smuggled her overseas to Pentos. We’ve been living there ever since.”

 

It was a much shorter tale, Jon realized, once Clegane became involved in it. Jon was not pleased with this smaller explanation because Sansa’s departure from Winterfell to her stay with Littlefinger was nigh on two years, and it left half of her story untold. Jon noticed once more as Sansa’s hands circled her stomach with slow caresses, and he stilled completely as a realization hit him.

 

“How far along are you?” Jon asked her.

 

The silence that followed was more uncomfortable than Clegane’s scowling ruin of a face, and Sansa’s face turned whiter than the shaggy coat of Jon’s direwolf. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words came out, and she shook her head quickly. Jon almost thought she would deny it, but she did not.

 

“Please,” Sansa pleaded, “you cannot tell anyone, Jon. I—”

 

“Whether I tell anyone or not, you will come to full term at some point and they will notice without anyone having to say a word. Now, please,” Jon said, softening his voice. “How far along are you?”

 

“About three months,” Sansa whispered, and a look of horror began to settle onto her fair features. “I will not give it up,” she added quickly, as if reading his thoughts. “It is _my_ child, and no one will take my child from me.”

 

“Sansa,” Jon said with soft tones, knowing how terrified she must have felt in her situation, “I said nothing of the sort.” He pitied her as he remembered his own upbringing. He did not wish that sort of life on any child. No child deserved that kind of life in Jon’s eyes. “Well,” he said, “the child is not Tyrion’s, so who is the father?”

 

Sansa fell quiet, her gaze drooping downward with heavy eyes. Her silence on this matter irritated Jon, though he loved her dearly, and he sighed in frustration. “Sansa, you will be asked these questions before a crowd upon your arrival if you do not answer them in private now. Rickon is surrounded by his men always as he is not allowed to make decisions on his own on account of his age. I wish to spare you that humiliation, but I can’t if you don’t tell me the full story before we arrive at Winterfell. I can avert attention when we get there, and I can arrange a discreet meeting in which we may work this out, but only if you trust me.”

 

Her struggle was obvious. Sansa’s hands clutched around her belly in an natural gesture of protection, her expression twisting and contorting in both fear and reluctance. Suddenly, Sandor spoke for her.

 

“I am,” he said gruffly.

 

Jon’s eyes went wide as he turned his gaze to Clegane. He heard, without seeing, Sansa’s gasp at Clegane’s reply, but his focus was entirely on the hulk of a man who had just claimed to be the father of Sansa’s unborn child. Jon’s mouth was open, too; he shut it quickly when he realized this, and his lips pressed into a thin, firm line.

 

“How has this come to be?” he asked both of them, looking from one to the other. Sansa’s look of fear remained, and it gave Jon a newfound and terrifying thought. “I cannot imagine this happening any other way but force,” he voiced aloud.

 

Clegane’s ruined face twisted grotesquely in the dark, but before he could say anything Sansa spoke first as a look of hurt clouded her fair features. “How can you say that, Jon? He is a good man. He has never hurt me. I was terrified of him once, it is true, but he has taken care of me most graciously with no reward to himself—”

 

Jon’s eyes were ice. “By putting a bastard in your belly?”

 

Clegane could not hold his peace any longer. He rose to his full height, towering over Jon’s sitting frame. “You’re one to talk, _bastard_.”

 

Jon did not stand up, but he met Clegane’s hateful gaze with equal coldness. “I am one to talk. I know better than anyone how bastards are treated in this world,” Jon stated coolly. His words were met with silence as neither of them challenged him. Clegane backed down from his fight and turned away from Jon. Jon could see him flexing his fists in the dark.

 

“But my child is not a bastard,” Sansa said, her voice barely above a whisper. Jon noticed her hands were trembling. “Sandor and I were married in the Faith of the Seven nearly four months ago. It is legal.”

 

“No,” Jon said slowly, “it is not. Your marriage to Tyrion was never publicly annulled by a septon of the faith, and the only way a married couple may achieve annulment is through a lack of consummation, which you both must agree never happened for it to even be valid. Thus, by the laws of the land, you are still lawfully wedded to Tyrion. Any child born of a different father will be a bastard with no legal rights.”

 

Tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes, and Jon felt a stab of pain like a dagger in his heart for the grief his words had caused her, but it was the truth. He could not lie to her. He would never lie to her.

 

“There must be some other way,” Sansa whispered, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand.

 

“Tyrion must agree to an annulment,” Jon said. “There is no other way.”

 

“Ha!” Clegane barked. “The Imp? He’ll never agree.”

 

“We are treating with Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon said, addressing Clegane. “Lord Tyrion is with her. According to reports, he wishes to see his beloved sister, Queen Cersei, dead. He has said he seeks nothing more than the inheritance of Casterly Rock, which is rightfully his by default after the death of his father. Many claim he murdered his own father, but there is simply no proof of this and no witnesses. In any case, Daenerys will not try him for it.”

 

“So,” Sansa ventured nervously, “he will agree to an annulment?”

 

“Your return has been kept a secret so far, but I see no reason why he should not agree and fully support it. He has made no mention of his marriage to you. Besides, he will have no claim to Winterfell with Rickon on our father’s seat. But,” Jon added carefully, “I must say something else.”

 

“Yes?” asked Sansa.

 

Jon turned his attention to Clegane, though, and rose up from his seat on the floor. He intended to give his next position the importance it deserved by standing, not by sitting, if he expected Clegane to take it seriously. “You may pledge your sword to the cause of House Stark,” Jon Snow said to Clegane, “but you may not remain married to my sister.”

 

“Jon—!”

 

“ _Why?_ ” Clegane growled, whirling on Jon as he bared his teeth like a wild dog. The fire danced across his scarred flesh and lit his eyes with fury. Jon held his ground against him. He was not a boy anymore, and while he was wary of Clegane, he was not afraid of him.

 

“You are lowborn,” Jon calmly explained. “Your house is nigh a century old, and hers is over eight thousand years of great lordships and kings. The blood of the First Men runs in her veins. You are too far below her in status to be her husband. She is Lady Stark of Winterfell. You are Sandor Clegane, the once sworn shield of King Joffrey Baratheon, and the Dog of Lannister.”

 

Sansa was audibly crying in the background, but Jon’s gaze was locked in a battle with Clegane. Jon did not expect Sansa to fight him any longer, but he also did not expect the hurt look he saw in Clegane’s eyes at a revelation that was so clear it could not have been new to him. The rage did not die in Clegane’s face, but it subsided for a moment to allow him to speak.

 

“I won’t be parted from her because some little lordling wants her for her title and her honors,” Clegane rasped, his voice like steel grating against stone. “If I swear my sword to Lord Stark, he can make me a lord. He can grant me lands and titles. Just enough so I can marry Sansa again, here in Winterfell. I don’t beg, and I won’t beg.” Clegane’s face twisted as he stared at Jon, and Jon knew the next words must have hurt for him to say out loud. “Let me be a father to my child. A husband to my wife. A sword for Lord Stark.”

 

Until that moment, some part of Jon had been distrustful of Clegane. Yet as he stared Clegane down in the aftermath of his speech, he saw no dishonesty in the Hound’s eyes, no trick beneath the surface. Jon felt his own expression softening, and he glanced between Clegane and Sansa. His sister was no longer crying, but she was watching them with some look of expectation halfway between hope and fear.

 

Jon looked at Sansa. “Is this your wish?” he asked her.

 

“Yes,” she breathed out, a hand against her throat. “Oh, yes, Jon please.”

 

Jon was silent for a moment, and then he turned back to Clegane. He never imagined his prim and proper sister wishing to be married to a man like Clegane, but then he remembered Ygritte and all of the imperfections that somehow made him love her, and he understood.

 

“Rickon will not care,” Jon said at length. “He is just a boy, but the northern lords who support him _will_ care. The only way this is even possible is if we can make them not care. Your suggestion is possible. We have lost many men, many families, in this war. There are empty lands and estates that need to be filled. You must have a lordship and property bestowed upon your name for your honorable service towards our family. It will show the lords those who once served Lannister may earn something more than a sword at their neck from the Starks if they change their stripes. With lands and titles, you may yet be worthy of my sister’s hand.” Jon looked at Sansa. “If,” he added pointedly, “you love him.”

 

Sansa’s eyes glistened as she smiled brightly at him. “I do,” she said. “Very much.”

 

“If we take this path, your marriage to Tyrion Lannister must be publicly annulled,” Jon continued. “Then, your betrothal announced, and a new marriage must take place.”

 

“But I am with child . . . ”

 

“Then we must act swiftly, my dear Sansa,” Jon said, smiling softly in her direction. “Tyrion is on his way north. He is coming to treat with us in the name of Daenerys Targaryen, and then I will leave south with him when he departs in order to have words with his Queen. While he is here, we will breach the matter with him.”

 

Sansa paled at this news, clutching at her cloak. “How far away is he?”

 

“A fortnight at best, if we’re lucky. He should be there soon.”

 

“Will he agree?” asked Clegane.

 

“I will make him see the benefit, if not,” Jon said. “But I believe he will.”

 

“And you will do all this,” Clegane said, “for us.”

 

It was a statement, not a question, but Jon could hear Clegane’s disbelief beneath the words. Jon knew he could make no promises, but he did not believe Tyrion would be the one to play the role of the tyrant solely for personal amusement. Tyrion treated Sansa with some measure of respect despite their marriage or he would not have left her a maiden, a commonly known piece of gossip surrounding the debacle of their wedding. It was more than that, though. Jon never believed Tyrion to be the enemy, and that belief was the seed that created the alliance between Targaryen and Stark in the first place.

 

Jon also sensed that Clegane had not expected help from him in this matter, but if Jon was doing this for anyone, he was doing it for Sansa.

 

“I will do what I can,” Jon said, “but please, remember, I cannot move the stars.”


	9. Allegiance to Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I thought I wouldn't write a Sansa POV for this story, but it came naturally for this chapter. I apologize for the delay; I was on vacation, lounging and being lazy! I have missed writing for this, though!

_ix._

 

The warmth of summer filled the halls of Winterfell’s castle in a way Sansa had remembered from a lifetime ago and had not felt for years. The dark hallways were not scary but familiar to her, and she closed her eyes for one brief second to pretend she was nine again and these halls were filled with the footsteps and laughter of herself, her brothers, and her sister. Sansa felt a strong muscled hand slide into hers and clasp her hand, not ungently, and she opened her eyes to look upward to her left at the husband who walked at her side.

 

 _Husband_ , she thought with satisfaction. Jon could say it differently all he wanted, but Sansa knew Sandor was her husband and no petty public annulment would make it any less true to her. She had given him her heart, her soul, and her bed. She was carrying her first child, a child borne out of her love with him, and she placed her other hand over her stomach almost unconsciously. Jon told her she must try to refrain from doing it, but Sansa could not help it. It was hard to remember to stop herself, and she became sick more often than not. While sometimes it was her nausea that prompted the action, it was also some newfound instinct in her. A motherly affection, she supposed, for the little life growing inside of her.

 

Sansa smiled at Sandor’s worrisome expression. She knew what he was thinking without him having to ask her. “I am fine,” she said. “I was only remembering my childhood here.” She cast her gaze back down the hallway, but the sight of the men ahead of her and the back of her half brother’s cloaked figure reminded her this was the present and only she, him, and Rickon remained. It dropped her spirits considerably to think of her lost siblings, but Sansa tried to reel the feelings inward. She was a puddle of emotions as of late, and thinking on such a sad topic would only make her worse than usual.

 

They came to a large set of doors at the end of the hall, and Sansa stopped along with Sandor behind Jon and the other men. The doors were pushed open, creaking on old hinges in need of oiling, and Jon ushered Sansa and Sandor into the chamber. The men did not follow them in and faithfully shut the doors behind them. Sansa looked back only briefly, but turned her attention forward as she bit the inside of her cheek in hesitation.

 

She knew it was only her little brother she was going to see, but he was a lord now. _Lord Stark of Winterfell_ , she thought, _and he’s only seven years old_. She hadn’t seen him since he was three. Sansa hoped he was a better child than Sweetrobin had been, and more even tempered, but she had heard the stories on the travels back home. Jon told her Ser Davos Seaworth had found Rickon on the island of Skagos. Rickon had been raised by tribal cannibals for almost three years on that island, and he was a wild thing when Ser Davos first found him. Initially, Rickon had refused to leave Skagos. He had left home so young that he probably couldn’t remember who he was, Jon had said.

 

The whole thing made Sansa terribly sad, and a little bit frightened of her baby brother.

 

Sansa followed Jon to the head of the chamber, and Sandor followed on her left but had let go of her hand once they passed through the door, so now she walked alone. She held her head high, not sure what she was expecting, but the sight of Rickon surprised her more than anything else she expected to feel upon seeing him again after four years.

 

Rickon was tall for his age, lanky and lean, not a chubby little thing like Prince Tommen had been back when she lived at the Red Keep. He had auburn hair like Sansa, like their mother, and like Robb had once had back when he was alive, but his short hair was a mess of tangled curls groomed as best as someone could manage without shaving it all off, and he paced like a man awaiting a trial, not a baby brother waiting to see his long lost sister.

 

There were other men in the room as well, Sansa noticed, as they approached a small raised dais with a line of chairs set upon it. The largest chair was in the middle, and Rickon paused from his pacing just a few feet to its right to look up and see his guests. He beamed at Jon, all seriousness gone from his face, and announced loudly, “You’re back!”

 

“Yes, Lord Stark,” Jon answered with a grin that Sansa could hear, even if she could not see, “I am back, and I bring you two special guests for us to welcome home.” Jon stepped to the side, revealing Sansa to Rickon’s line of sight, and Sansa saw the disbelief in Rickon’s eyes before any trace of happiness or recognition.

 

“Is this Sansa?” Rickon asked, though he kept his eyes on her and did not look at Jon.

 

“Yes, my lord,” Jon said. “This is your sister — our sister — Lady Sansa.”

 

Sansa took two steps forward and curtsied in the proper manner, bowing her head as she did so. Though she had hoped for hugs and kisses, it seemed the most formal greeting would be expected of her. “My lord,” she said, more gravely than she intended, and tried not to sound sad.

 

When she looked up again, she saw Rickon grinning at her. He walked off the dais with a small jump off the last step, and came to her. Sansa’s heart quickened for a moment. She did not know what she expected, but Rickon stopped a foot before her and his grin grew even larger as he looked up at her. “You’re tall,” he proclaimed suddenly, and he laughed.

 

“Do you remember me, my lord?” Sansa asked, searching for some sort of recognition from her baby brother, hoping against all odds that he had not been too young since he had last seen her.

 

Finally, Rickon frowned. He stared at her face for a long while, but shook his head softly afterwards. “Not really,” he said, “but I will remember, I think. Everyone keeps telling me I was a baby when I was last here, and I think I remember leaving with my brother, Bran.” Rickon’s expression turned sad, echoing her own feelings. “I miss Bran,” he added.

 

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek as the familiar sting of tears pricked the back of her eyes. “I miss him, too,” she said, and without warning, Rickon hugged her. Sansa hugged him back as tightly as her tired arms would allow her. When they parted from their embrace, she was finally smiling back at him, and Rickon pulled her away by the hand and led her to the dais.

 

“Come and sit with me,” he said, and he took the largest chair in the center, while she sat in the one to his right. Sansa looked across the new distance to Sandor, and she felt a new pang of fear hit her. They had not yet dealt with the issue they had come here today to discuss, and Jon was to speak to Rickon about it.

 

“My lord,” Jon continued, “I would like to introduce our next guest.” Jon stepped aside as Sandor came forward and bent one knee to Rickon, bowing his head. “This is Sandor Clegane. Though once in service to the Lannisters, he has aided and protected our sister in her exile for two years, keeping her out of harm’s way and guiding her back home to us when it was safe. For his honorable duty to your house and to your family, I submit that a great reward would not be out of place for what he has done for us. With the innumerous empty lands and our many sad losses during this long war, I think a lordship in the North would show good favor to those who have aided House Stark in these troubled times and that we should start with Clegane.”

 

Sansa expected her younger brother to grin and laugh at the display before him and welcome Sandor, but Rickon became dark in his fair young face and scowled angrily. Sansa’s heart leaped into her chest, and she looked at Sandor who was hitherto unaware, for his head was still bowed in submission. “He served the Lannisters. How can we trust him?” asked Rickon. “Did he push my brother out that window?”

 

Jon seemed as nervous as Sansa. “No, my lord. That was Jaime Lannister’s doing,” he assured him. “The Hou—Sandor was not present, nor did he have a hand in it.”

 

“How do we know he won’t betray us if we let him have a lordship?” Rickon questioned further, his voice rising with each word. He rose from his seat beside Sansa. “How do we know he won’t kill us in our sleep?”

 

Sansa’s stomach began to turn, and she felt as though she might faint or be sick. Her hands clutched the arms of her chair, her knuckles growing white from her tightening grip. She feared Sandor would rise at any moment, scowling and promising to do just that if someone didn’t reward him—just to show them he wasn’t afraid of them. It would be so like him to challenge them, and yet she prayed that he did not have such foolish thoughts in his head as her imagined ones.

 

“My lord,” came Sandor’s raspy voice, and Sansa noticed he still knelt upon the floor. “You’ve every right to question my loyalties, but why should I betray you for a doomed House and a dead family? The Starks and Targaryens have won this war. Queen Cersei is captured. Her bastards, all dead. Who have I to serve in their name, then, but dead men and dead babies?”

 

The silence seemed profound to Sansa’s ears. Neither Jon nor Rickon had answer for those questions. Rickon’s severity faded with a new uncertainty as he gazed across the room at Sandor, and Jon spoke to break the discomfort that had arisen in the air.

 

“He speaks the truth, my lord,” said Jon. “House Lannister is nearly extinct, save for Lord Tyrion who serves Queen Targaryen. Jaime Lannister, of course, remains rogue, but he is a one-handed knight of lessening repute and no friends. There are few left to serve in that name.”

 

“What would he do, then, as a lord of the North?” Rickon asked, addressing his brother, but it was Sandor who answered him.

 

“I would ask the hand of your sister, my lord.”

 

The other two men in the room looked immediately offended by his proposal, but Sansa had more trouble reading the expression on Jon’s face. He looked uncomfortable and angry, but not necessarily disapproving. Rickon was the biggest surprise of all. Even though Jon said he was young and he would not care, he seemed almost amused by the idea of a marriage.

 

“I like weddings,” Rickon said cheerfully. “Weddings are happy. It would show unity, wouldn’t it, Jon? Do you want to marry him, Sansa?” Sansa was so shocked to be asked that question by Rickon that she felt herself unable to answer at first. Rickon mistook her silence, and barreled on. “Well, I know he’s ugly, but maybe he’s nice underneath it.”

 

Sansa met Jon’s eyes as if to ask him what she should say, and Jon quirked his lips in a half smile. He dipped his head in a nod. She glanced back at Rickon, and felt herself beam a smile at him. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I would marry him, if that is your wish, my lord.”

 

Rickon clapped his hands. “Then, it’s settled! We will have a new lord and a feast in his honor!” Rickon bounded off the steps of the raised dais, hurried toward Jon, and dragged him from the room. “We should practice shooting! You’re the only decent archer to fight me!”

 

Sansa listened as her little brother’s voice faded away. The two men in the room followed Rickon and Jon into the hall beyond, leaving Sansa and Sandor behind as if they were both forgotten. Sansa knew it was not on purpose. She imagined Rickon could make anyone scatterbrained if he ran with such energy all day, and she was glad for a moment alone with Sandor since their ship first set sail.

 

She stood from her seat and walked to the edge of the dais as Sandor rose from the floor and approached it. He met her at the edge, and the dais made them almost identical in height with Sansa just an inch taller. Sansa smiled down at him. “I do believe I am taller than you,” she said, teasing.

 

Sandor’s mouth twitched slightly. “You’re smiling,” he said.

 

“Yes, and let me keep smiling for now,” she answered, blocking out all possible bad thoughts that might come her way. “I’ve worried far too long, and I don’t believe it’s good for the baby. Things are looking up a lot faster than I thought, and perhaps they will continue to do so. Jon has been right so far. I believe he will be right again when the time comes.”

 

“You believe the Imp will say yes?” Sandor asked her. Every time before, his voice had been filled with disgust at the very mention of Tyrion, but this time it was different. He seemed to let go of his anger towards her previous husband, and if not permanently, at least for the time being.

 

Sansa took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said, and she extended her hand to him. Sandor took it, gently escorting her off the platform to the ground level. They walked out of the chamber together into hallways familiar to her and unfamiliar to him.

 

“I hope you’re right,” Sandor said at length.

 

“I hope so, too,” she added. Though they walked with their hands separated, she reached out to him again and squeezed his hand in a reassuring grip. “If my brother was so easy on you, I believe Lord Tyrion will not be so harsh.”

 

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Sandor told her in his raspy voice, and for the first time since her joy had dawned on her this evening, she felt the creeping doubt enter into the back of her mind again.

 

“He has not seen me in years,” she countered, hoping to ease her own doubt more than her husband’s.

 

Sandor stopped abruptly in the hall, and Sansa turned to him with confusion in her eyes. He cupped her face, looking down at her with a clouded expression, dark as a winter sky. “As if that’s made you any less beautiful,” he murmured. Where she once would have thought his voice rough and frightening, she now found it to be the sound she most longed for in the world. It sent tingles down her neck, over her shoulders, and into her back.

 

Sansa felt her face heating up at his touch, his stare. She was sure she was blushing. “My lord,” she whispered, but this time it was not meant to hurt him. Her hand rose to his face, and gently cupped his jaw. She wanted him to kiss her. He was so close.

 

Sandor pulled away, and her heart sunk. “We shouldn’t make scandal,” he said, and she grinned at him unbidden, understanding.

 

“Of course not,” Sansa agreed. She held out her arm, and Sandor took it. “Will you escort me to the dining hall, good sir? I am famished.”

 

“As you wish,” he rasped.

 

As he led her down the halls, Sansa wondered at a world that might have been if she had taken a different path a long time ago. Sometimes she reflected on what might have happened if she had followed him the first time he asked her instead of the second, but she was afraid things might not have turned out the way they had if she fled King’s Landing with him. She had been so young, even then.

 

Sansa laid her hand on Sandor’s arm, and prayed to the Mother that Tyrion would forgive her.


	10. Plots and Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this installment as much as the others, even though Sansa and Sandor are absent from it. It seemed fitting that Jon would try to talk to Tyrion in private first. :-)

_x._

 

“You began the feast without me,” Tyrion exclaimed. “I am terribly disturbed by this. Good wine, and all of it wasted on people other than me. Tell me, is there any left? I need some after my long journey.”

 

Jon Snow looked over at Lord Tyrion, grabbed a heavy jug off the table, and poured two cups of wine. He passed one forward to Lord Tyrion and took the other into his hand, bringing the rim of the cup to his lips for a quick gulp. Tyrion had changed much since they last met. Most notably, he bore a large scar across his face and lacked the majority of his nose. The man had never been the golden knight his brother was, but Jon thought his new scars were quite a hideous sight.

 

“I hope so,” Jon answered, nodding at the second cup that Tyrion had yet to touch. Tyrion took it slowly, and he seemed to inspect it before he allowed himself to drink. Jon found himself smiling somewhat. “Do you not trust me, my lord?”

 

Tyrion eyed him knowingly across the table. “Trust is a hard commodity to come by these days. I like to think more in terms of negotiations and contracts of mutual interest.”

 

“That is one way of looking at it.”

 

“There are many ways of looking at it, but that is the one I choose. So, tell me, Snow, are you still the bastard?”

 

“I don’t know.” Jon shrugged his shoulders. “Are you still the Imp?”

 

Tyrion grinned over his wine. He took another drink and put it down. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken, but I think we’ll make beautiful contracts together. It seems you are the person to talk to, even though your brother is the one on the high seat.”

 

“He is at the feast,” Jon said. “I wanted us to have a word in private before tomorrow’s proceedings. We have a lot of things to discuss. It would be good to get a head start tonight.”

 

“You’re using your head now instead of your arm. I like that. You’ve taken more than one piece of my advice, then.”

 

“I have,” Jon admitted. “What news do you bring? I know Queen Cersei has been captured. What of her children, King Tommen and his sister, Myrcella?”

 

“Both are dead,” Tyrion slowly confessed, and Jon could hear the sadness in his voice at the admission. Tyrion’s gaze was fixed on a notch in the table’s surface. Jon watched as the other man reached out and scratched a fingernail over the spot. Tyrion’s focus was far away.

 

“I am sorry,” Jon said softly. “I know it is not much, but they were your family, and they were innocent.”

 

“Yes, it’s always the innocents who pay the most.” Tyrion ran a finger along the rim of his goblet before lifting it and taking a swig of bitter wine. “Daenerys and Aegon’s armies are skirmishing in Dorne,” he continued. “It seems they could not see eye to eye on equal rule as some might have hoped. Aegon’s fleet is destroyed, and he is losing. It will not be long before Daenerys has him as well as my sister. Only Dorne supported him, which was a foolish enough reason to go to war. The rest of Westeros questions his authenticity. There is no evidence to even prove he is who he says he is, despite his well-educated background and genes. To be fair, his looks could be explained if he were just the bastard son of a Dayne.”

 

“What do you think?” Jon asked.

 

Tyrion swirled the wine in his goblet. “I think he is genuine.”

 

“Will she kill him?”

 

“Oh, definitely. The same way she killed King Stannis, I hope.”

 

Jon’s heart grew heavy with the memory. “He wanted the Iron Throne,” Jon said, “and he got it.”

 

“Yes, for a fortnight before Daenerys burned the Red Keep with him in it.”

 

It was true. King Stannis had been a stringent and sometimes cruel man of his own free will, but Jon believed his intentions had been good. Stannis sacked King’s Landing in the end, and reigned a brief reign, but Daenerys came from over the sea and laid the Red Keep to waste under the dragon fire of her children. King Stannis burned in the fire along with the majority of his men.

 

Jon leaned back in his seat. “Then, it is almost over. We have come to the end of the petty squabbles at last,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced, “and to the beginning of the real war.”

 

At length, Tyrion dared to speak. “Yes.”

 

“The Watch will die,” Jon said. “There is no stopping it. They will not listen. The Others will come, and we need Her Majesty’s dragons if we are to stop them. As soon as they destroy or capture Aegon, they must come to the North so we may deal with the threat beyond the Wall before it is too late.”

 

“She will come,” Tyrion assured him, “but she will need riders for her dragons. Without Aegon, she’s the last Targaryen. Who will ride the dragons?”

 

Jon thought long and hard before he answered. “I will, if I must.”

 

Tyrion snorted, and then he burst into laughter so hard that he nearly choked on his own tongue. It was cut off by sudden coughing, and he had to slap his chest to calm the fit away. “My dear boy,” Tyrion said, “you are mad if you think that just anyone can ride a dragon.”

 

Jon did not often get angry, but in that moment he felt it as strongly as the anger from his youth whenever he was called a _bastard_. He was not going to be mocked, and least of all by Tyrion Lannister. “My lord,” Jon replied stiffly, “I never said just anyone can ride a dragon, nor did I imply it, so you must forgive me but I do not see the amusement in what I said as you do.”

 

Still, even now, Jon’s dreams came back to him. He could feel himself being drawn towards the underground crypts of Winterfell by some force stronger than himself. He would see nothing but the blackness of the tunnel before him until flames burst from the torches as some inhuman power lit them all at once. Though he cried out that he did not belong here because he wasn’t a Stark, something was down there in the darkness waiting for him.

 

Always, though, he woke up before he met it.

 

Tyrion eyed Jon across the table, a new found curiosity in his gaze. “I haven’t spoken with Daenerys openly about the subject on the grounds that I don’t think she would appreciate it much, but I’m assuming that only Targaryen blood, or the blood of Old Valyria, speaks to a dragon,” Tyrion said. He shrugged. “Or I might have offered to ride one myself.”

 

“How much Targaryen blood?”

 

Tyrion was silent, watching Jon intently. “Are you trying to tell me something, Snow?”

 

Jon shook his head, frowning. “No, it was just a question. If you don’t know the answer, that’s all right. Maybe there is another way for the dragons to be brought North. I doubt one will be enough against the forces beyond the Wall.”

 

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not enough,” Tyrion said. “This is but the main issue I have come to share with Lord Stark tomorrow at our meeting. If Daenerys kills Aegon, which she probably will after he declared war on her, we have but one Targaryen left. My good friend Illyrio believed he would have three before all of this was over: Viserys, Daenerys, and Aegon. His plans, however, have all gone to pot.”

 

Jon furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure I know who that is . . . ”

 

“Don’t worry, he’s not really worth knowing.”

 

Jon’s head was swimming. He tried to rub away the weariness from his temples, but found it did him no good. He was just beginning to feel exhaustion creep up on him. It was getting late, and more wine would only make him sleepier. He raised his head and looked at Tyrion. “Before we part tonight, my lord, there was one more thing I wished to talk with you about.”

 

“And what is that?” Tyrion asked.

 

“There was something else I wanted to say to you in private,” Jon said. “I admit I was furious when I had heard you married my sister, Sansa, but I have since realized that it was not something wholly within your control at the time. Your kind and generous treatment of her in King’s Landing has made me very grateful towards you.”

 

Something in Tyrion’s eyes changed, as well as his voice; it was unsteady, deeper than usual. “You speak as if you’ve found her again,” he said slowly. He eyed Jon, tilting his head slightly to the left. “Have you?”

 

Jon could not meet Tyrion’s gaze. Some part of him was certain he was breaking some code of trust between him and his sister. She had not wanted anyone out of the North to know of her return, but news would reach them sooner or later, and Jon did not want to be held accountable for withholding such information from people who were meant to be their allies.

 

“Yes,” Jon answered at last. He lifted his gaze to Tyrion. “We have.”

 

Tyrion looked down at his goblet. He was silent for some time. Eventually, he downed the rest of its contents in a few gulps, and then went to pour himself another cupful. “Well, I suppose this is happy news.”

 

Jon felt an urge to ask something. “Did you love her, my lord?” he asked, though his voice was almost a whisper.

 

“Love her?” Tyrion asked himself, swirling his wine before drinking it. “No, it wasn’t love. I admired her. I feared for her life every second of every day she was in King’s Landing. For my part, I tried to watch over her, and she repaid me by abandoning me at the most convenient moment she got.” Again, he downed his cup.

 

Jon did not know what to say. He knew Sansa escaped the day of Joffrey’s wedding during the feast, and he knew Joffrey died during that very same feast. Jon had heard tales and rumors of Tyrion’s imprisonment, and he finally began to understand what sort of mindset Tyrion might have towards Sansa. It filled him with a cold dread. He was not certain Tyrion would grant anything Sansa asked of him.

 

“Do you wish to see her, my lord?”

 

Tyrion snorted. “She doesn’t wish to see me. I can guarantee that. She hated looking at my face the first time around, and it won’t be any different this time.”

 

Jon actually found himself smiling. “You might be surprised. Sansa’s not the girl she once was.”

 

“Of course not,” Tyrion quipped. “Beautiful girl out in the world all alone for two years. I imagine she’s done a _lot_ to survive.”

 

Jon’s smile vanished. He felt as though his words were betraying Sansa again, but the urge to defend her against Tyrion’s rude remark was too strong. “She wasn’t alone,” Jon argued.

 

Tyrion turned sharply towards Jon. For one moment, the dwarf looked completely sober again. “What do you mean?”

 

“She had help,” Jon said simply.

 

“Who?”

 

“I do not believe this is appropriate to discuss—”

 

“Oh, but it’s appropriate to ask intimate details about my marriage to my wife?” Tyrion replied, cutting him off. “Who helped her escape, leaving me to rot in a dungeon in King’s Landing, and then protected _her_ while I squandered time around half of the world looking for safety?”

 

“A different man helped her escape from King’s Landing,” Jon answered carefully, “and I believe he is an enemy to both of us. The other found her later, took her away from the first would-be protector, and brought her to Pentos for the last two years. They lived there in disguise, in safety.”

 

Tyrion seemed to calm down after that. After a short period of silence, he pushed away his cup. “I am done with the wine,” he said. “Who is our mutual enemy?”

 

“Lord Petyr Baelish,” Jon replied.

 

“Good, we are agreed on that. And her other protector, the nobler one?”

 

This time, Jon hesitated. “I think it is best you talk to her.”

 

“I will hear it from you,” Tyrion said, “and then I will decide if I wish to hear it from her.”

 

The silence dragged on between them for what seemed like a long time. Jon mulled over the possible outcomes in his head, trying ever to guess on Tyrion’s reaction, and getting nowhere as each second passed by. Finally, he took a deep breath and revealed what he knew as slowly as he could.

 

“He served your sister for a long time,” Jon said, and that seemed to get Tyrion’s attention, “before turning his loyalties and abandoning the king during the Battle of the Blackwater. His name is Sandor Clegane, but he was often called the Hound.”

 

Tyrion stared raptly at Jon, his mouth half-open in disbelief. Jon waited on him to close his mouth and nod his head in grave understanding, but Tyrion suddenly burst into laughter so hard that Jon thought he would surely choke to death this time. Tyrion nearly fell out of his chair. Jon stood up quickly, his chair screeching against the floor, and hurried around the table to Tyrion’s side.

 

“My lord—”

 

Tyrion slapped his hand away. “Oh, I’m fine, you fool.” He coughed, hooted some more, and grabbed onto Jon’s sleeve for support. “The gods are cruel indeed, my friend, to take her from me and give her to him. Yes, I will hear this story from Sansa. First thing tomorrow, before the meeting . . . ”

 

“Are you sure, my lord?” Jon asked, unsure of how to take Tyrion’s response or his laughter. “You’ve had a lot to drink. Perhaps the meeting first, then you may see her in the evening when you are well and sober.”

 

Tyrion shook his head and removed himself from his chair. “No,” he said, “first thing . . . in the morning.” Tyrion held up a single finger as if he were making a point he was trying to get across to Jon. “I’ll be up and in the hall, waiting.” Tyrion headed for the door. “I will see you, then, my good friend!” As Tyrion stepped out on unsteady feet, Jon hoped the lord slept late.

 

It would give him time to warn Sansa of what was coming for her tomorrow.


	11. From Lion to Wolf

_xi._

 

Jon arrived at her quarters with three knocks that morning, and Sansa was so glad to see him yet again that she found herself putting her arms around her brother in a comforting embrace. She led him into her chambers. “Please, sit,” she said, gesturing at one of the highly cushioned chairs that decorated the foot of her bed. Jon, however, stood gravely near the door.

 

“I’m afraid I cannot stay long,” he said, “but I have to warn you. When I spoke with him last night during the feast, Tyrion requested an audience with you first thing this morning.”

 

Sansa froze. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Immediately? Why so soon? I’ve barely been awake for—”

 

“He is not yet awake,” Jon assured her. “He . . . drank a lot of wine last night. I went to check on him this morning, and it seems he drank even more after he went back to his chambers. I have no idea when he will be awake, but I think it is best you prepare to meet him at any time today. He is our guest here, and he is very vital to our negotiations. I would not want to give offense by denying or hindering his request, and I hope you would not either.”

 

Sansa expected to feel afraid at the thought of meeting Tyrion again, especially so soon after coming back to Winterfell, but though she was nervous, it was not nearly as bad as she had expected it to be in the weeks before his coming. She felt oddly calm and collected as she settled back into the life at Winterfell. She thought perhaps her feet were more grounded here than anywhere else in the world, and her time with Lord Petyr had taught her strength, if not anything else.

 

“No, I would not,” Sansa decided, her hand straying to her belly to cup it. It was becoming slowly more noticeable, she thought, even in such a short span of time. They did well to hide it with her gowns and cloaks, but Tyrion was more intelligent than the average person. He would know the moment he saw her.

 

“He will know I am with child,” she said, looking up at Jon.

 

Jon nodded his head. “He probably will,” he agreed.

 

“Have you had a moment to ask him . . . ” she began, but she could not find the words to finish her question.

 

“No,” Jon answered her. “There was never a good moment to ask. I felt it was too soon. He took your return quite hard at first, and I did not wish to insult him by asking such a question during his grief.”

 

“His grief . . . ” Sansa echoed. It was all so surreal for her, to think that Tyrion might grieve on account of her. Perhaps she had judged him wrong all those long years ago, but how was she to have known? How was she to have known he was not just another Lannister in the lion’s den that had surrounded her? Sansa sat down. “Please, forgive me. It is a lot to take in.”

 

“If you would like me to be present, I am sure Lord Tyrion would not mind.”

 

Sansa made up her mind quickly on that matter. “No,” she said. “I can do this on my own.” She looked over at Jon and smiled at him. “I know you mean well, but Lord Tyrion deserves to hear it from me and me alone. I owe him that much. There is no need for anyone to watch us.” Sansa sighed and rose from her seat. “I must get ready, then.”

 

Jon bowed his head. “As you wish,” he said. He turned to leave.

 

“Jon?”

 

Jon stopped, turning around long enough to give her a questioning gaze. Sansa smiled at him. “Please, we are brother and sister. Don’t act differently around me now that I am home again.”

 

Jon returned her smile with a warm one of his own, and nodded his head. “I will go see how things are faring elsewhere in the castle after last night’s extraordinary feast,” he finally said, raising his eyebrows, and Sansa laughed as he turned around to go.

 

When she was left alone with her thoughts, she called on one of her maids to help her get dressed for the day. If she was going to be entertaining Lord Tyrion with a meeting, she ought to at least look her best. After her hair was plaited down her back, she was dressed in dark blue and grey garb of the North. She hoped the style and the padding was enough to cover her growing bump. When Sansa was satisfied with her appearance, she left her quarters to go find Sandor.

 

Sansa was unlucky in her search to find Sandor. Before she could quietly discover where he had gone off to, a young man with a coif of blonde dark hair found her first. He bent over immediately, red-faced and panting with sweat on his brow, as if he had run a hundred miles without a break.

 

“My Lady Sansa,” he breathed out, taking a few seconds before he spoke again. “I was sent . . . to find you. Lord . . . Tyrion . . . is waiting. Please, come. Follow me.”

 

She followed him without question, having expected this moment to come sooner or later ever since Jon’s visit this morning. When the boy finally stopped before a doorway after some time of walking the halls, though, Sansa felt the first bloom of reluctance within her. It halted her steps almost ten feet away from the door, and she looked at the young man as if she expected him to tell her it was all a mistake and to beg her pardons.

 

But he did not.

 

“My lady?” he asked. “He is inside.”

 

The young boy, whose name Sansa did not know, opened the door to let her pass. She reigned in her courage, held her head high, and walked through the door. It closed with a resounding, but quiet, thud behind her.

 

Tyrion was rubbing his forehead. He looked half-asleep. His hair was mostly a mess, but somehow it suited him. He was sitting at a small table with an empty chair on the opposite side for her, and when he looked up, the first thing he noticed about her he did not say out loud, when she thought speaking his mind had always been a quality of his. Perhaps she was wrong about that as well.

 

“Please, Lady Sansa,” Tyrion said, gesturing to the empty chair. “Sit.”

 

She moved slowly. The room was small and sparsely furnished. It looked like a small chamber connected to a larger guest room. The larger room would have been for sleeping, while this smaller one was made for entertaining guests in a proper manner without inviting them into the sleeping quarters.

 

Sansa sat down, her gaze meeting Tyrion’s with relative ease. He did not look as ugly as he once did to her. He seemed almost somewhat handsome, if only he still had the rest of his nose. Nor did he seem menacing to her, which she had expected of him when she had first heard he was allied with the Dragon Queen. Instead, Tyrion was an image of docility, though she imagined his headache might have had something to do with it.

 

“Good morning, my lord,” she said, and she actually smiled at him. Perhaps, she thought, for the first time in her life.

 

Tyrion stared at her for a while. “You are as lovely as ever,” he said. “You must forgive my harsh words yesterday. I was speaking out of old resentments.”

 

Sansa furrowed her brow. She had not heard anything about harsh words. “You must forgive me, my lord, but I do not know of any harsh words being spoken yesterday. Perhaps I was not present, so I cannot make a judgment on them, but Jon only said you were in grief and upset.”

 

Tyrion sighed, the corner of his mouth turning upright, and he shook his head as he looked at his lap. “Your brother, Jon, is sometimes too kind on people who don’t deserve it.”

 

Sansa nodded in agreement, smiling softly. “Yes, he has always been that way, especially towards me.”

 

Tyrion’s attention returned to Sansa, and he eyed her thoughtfully. “The noble Lady Stark? Cruel to her bastard brother? No, it is unheard of!” he jested.

 

Sansa actually found herself giggling at his remark. “I was quite cruel to him, my lord, in the way that children are,” she revealed, and then she grew serious. “And yet he was always the one nobler of heart.”

 

Tyrion smiled at her, and Sansa felt a pang of regret in her heart for how she had treated him at King’s Landing. She could not have known his true innermost thoughts, and survival had always been the foremost thing on her mind. To her, Tyrion had been just another lion and trusting him had never been an option in those days. She felt the hot sting in her eyes.

 

“I am so sorry, my lord,” Sansa said, her voice trembling, “for how I treated you. I thought only of living—”

 

“—And my family were bastards,” Tyrion finished for her. He sighed. “You do not need to apologize, Sansa. I know why you did what you did. You were smart. You were playing along with the game. Most people try to be noble, or they try to run away, but you were better than all of them. I tried to be angry with you, but I couldn’t. You were a Stark, and I was a Lannister. Really, what did I expect?”

 

Sansa swallowed past a lump in her throat and took a deep breath. “I am glad you are back, then,” she told him. She lifted her head and tried to smile at him. “I am glad we can be friends.”

 

“ . . . But nothing more?” Tyrion asked, and he looked down at her belly. Sansa looked down too, her hands moving to cover her baby as if it might hide the truth to protect her unborn child. Her mouth fell open, and she did not know what to say. “Yes, I noticed you are with child,” Tyrion said softly. “I am not the smartest man in the world for nothing.”

 

After a lengthy pause, Sansa answered him. “I am with child . . . ”

 

“Who is the father?”

 

Sansa’s eyes burned hot with tears. How many times must she answer this question, and to how many people? She glanced up at him, and the tears spilled from her eyes as her lips trembled in fear. Not for herself, but for her baby and the life her child would lead in the world if she could not be legally married to its father, her beloved true husband, in Westeros. “Sandor Clegane, my lord.” It was but a whisper from her lips as the tears trickled down her cheeks.

 

Tyrion’s mouth fell open, and he lowered his gaze, unable to meet hers. After some time, he got up from his chair and hobbled across the distance slowly. Sansa still held her belly, sobbing silent tears, as he stood by her side. His whole body thrummed with hesitation. Eventually, he reached out his hand to gently pat her shoulder. “I am sorry, my lady,” he murmured.

 

Sansa wiped her eyes dry with the back of her fingers. “No, I am sorry, my lord. I am a mess. Please, you should not be sorry. A child is a gift from the gods.”

 

“Of course, but not a child born out of force—”

 

“What?” Sansa asked quickly, utter blankness in her eyes until she understood his meaning. “No, my lord, you misunderstand.” First it was Jon, and now it was Tyrion. Did everyone think that the Hound had raped her, and not that she grew to love Sandor Clegane? “I was not forced. I . . . I . . . ”

 

But how did she explain to Tyrion Lannister than she fell in love with someone like the Hound, when she couldn’t even be a proper wife to him?

 

Tyrion extended his hand, lifting her chin with a single finger. His gaze was questioning, trying to read her like Lord Petyr read things in people, and in her eyes he found the answer. “What a strange world we live in,” Tyrion said at last, seemingly marveled. He lowered his hand from her chin, and bowed his head softly at her. When he raised his face again, his eyebrows shot up. “I should have rescued you,” Tyrion said, and it sounded like a joke, but Sansa couldn’t be sure. “Then I’d be the lucky man.”

 

“Are you angry, my lord?” Sansa asked, but she was afraid to hear the answer.

 

Tyrion sighed, turned around, and returned to his chair. “How can I be angry with you?” he said along the way. “I have not seen you in two years, and we were never truly wed. Not properly, anyway. You didn’t have a choice, and I did, but I only said yes because my father would have married you off to some scum in the family if I didn’t take your hand.” He pursed his lips. “You could almost say, in some twisted way, I was trying to be noble.”

 

Sansa had never known that, but now that she did, she never realized how grateful she should have been to have Tyrion instead of someone else.

 

“I also imagine,” Tyrion continued slowly this time, “that you might want to . . . marry the father of your child, is that so?”

 

Sansa opened her mouth. What should she say? Of course, she must be honest. It was the only way. She closed her mouth, and nodded her head. “Yes, my lord. I want a good life for my child, and well, I suppose it is strange, but I have come to love Sandor. Is it wrong, my lord, to wish a life with him?”

 

Tyrion smiled almost sadly, shaking his head. “No, my lady, it is not.”

 

Sansa smiled back, and she bit her bottom lip. “Will you help me, then?”

 

“Yes,” Tyrion said, holding up a finger. “But on one condition.”

 

Sansa’s stomach sank. “What is that, my lord?”

 

“I wish to be the godfather of your child,” Tyrion said.

 

Sansa was utterly perplexed. She had never in all her life expected to hear those words come out of Tyrion Lannister’s mouth. She felt as though she were in the middle of dream, and at any moment she might be pinched and wake up. “I . . . I thought you and Sandor did not like each other, my lord . . . ”

 

“Oh no, we don’t,” Tyrion agreed. “But I like _you_ , Lady Sansa . . . and it will _piss_ off Clegane, which is always a bonus.”

 

Sansa could not help it. It was all so lovely and utterly absurd that she burst into giggles, resting her hand on her collarbone and looking down at her lap. When she lifted her gaze back to Tyrion, she found him grinning back at her. Sansa rose from her seat, lifted her skirts, and came to Tyrion’s side. He looked up at her with curiosity in his mismatched eyes, and Sansa embraced him in a gentle hug that took a moment for him to be comfortable to return.

 

“I will not forget this, my lord,” Sansa said as she pulled away. “May there ever be friendship between our Houses, from this day forth.”

 

“Well, if you’re leaving me,” Tyrion quipped, “you must find me a _new_ wife.” He shook his finger at her, and there was a glitter in his eyes that said he was only jesting. “A pretty lady such as yourself must have equally pretty friends. I shall like to meet them,” he added, raising a single eyebrow.

 

Sansa giggled. “Yes, of course, my lord.”

 

“Will you break your fast with me, my lady? I hear they have plates and plates of _bacon_ out today . . . ” Tyrion got down from his chair and made his way to the door, turning back to look at her expectantly. Sansa smiled at him, lifted her skirts, and followed him.

 

“I would be honored, my lord,” she said.

 

With that, they left his guest chambers and made their way through the castle to the Great Hall, which was still undergoing repair from the Sack of Winterfell, though it fared much better in these days. They talked and told stories along the way, Sansa’s laughter echoing merrily down the hallways behind them.


	12. Lord of Winter

_xii._

 

Deep clouds hung over the sky like a great rolling curtain of grey. After several days of sunless and dry skies, the clouds peeled back to reveal a soft grey light falling on the lands like a glowing, thin-woven shroud. Mists rose from the river and crept over the snow-covered grounds, a haunting sight for those of superstitious minds. Castle Cerwyn was a fortress built upon the White Knife, an important trade route of the North that led south to White Harbor.

 

Sandor had ridden the morning after the feast, escorted to his new seat by a group of twenty retainers. Castle Cerwyn had been the seat of Lord Cerwyn, but after his death and his son’s death, Lady Jonella had succeeded to the seat. She had been an unwed maid in her thirties, and her death had left the lands and castle with no lord. What few relatives Lord Cerwyn had before the war were all dead now, a long noble house extinguished overnight, and Lord Rickon bestowed the unclaimed lands to his new lord, Sandor Clegane.

 

He took more easily to being called _milord_ than he did to having to follow all of the rules and procedures required of his newly obtained office. He scowled when he was told he must set off immediately to see his new lands and castle. Sandor hoped to see Sansa before he left Winterfell. Worse than that, he wanted to scoop her up onto his horse and take her with him, but her marriage to the Imp had not yet been dissolved and they had no official betrothal that would not warrant outrage and ramifications against such an action.

 

It angered him that he had to leave her behind. Every moment he worried about her, even though she was in the safe hands of her family only half a day’s ride to Winterfell. Sandor found himself looking out the windows more often than not, narrowing his gaze and searching the horizon for anything. A horse, or a raven. Days passed and neither came, so he adjusted to his new castle and learned its corridors and courtyards.

 

By the fourth day, he could find his way around half of the grounds without getting lost. It wasn’t too large, but it was still larger than anything he was used to living in. During one of his explorations, he walked into an old room with a dusty cradle against the wall and a pile of broken toys on the floor. Sandor gritted his teeth, shut the door, and stalked off.

 

On dawn of the seventh day, he stood at the edge of the topmost parapet. It gave him a good view of the surrounding lands. There were sloping, wooded dells off in the distance. Closer to the river, the domain surrounding the castle leveled out and the trees became sparse. Enemies could be seen from a fair distance were they to come, and its position on the river gave it the upper hand with defense.

 

With its new lord, the castle would get a new name as well. _Castle Clegane_ , Lord Rickon had said, _to match your name_.

 

The castle’s walls and courtyards loomed before him, large but empty. Sandor had never been lord of his own castle before, but he’d dreamt of it from time to time. He had hoped once King Robb Stark would have made him a lord, but that day never came. Bolton’s men came instead with steel and death, and Sandor fled in the other direction with a different Stark girl on his back.

 

Sandor wondered oftentimes what happened to that girl. Still, he never spoke of it to Sansa.

 

As he was lost in his thoughts atop the battlement, Sandor spotted something in the distance. It drew nearer, and he made out a horse and rider. _News_ , he thought. Quickly, he turned to leave the tower. Once Sandor was back on the ground, he hollered at one of the men to bring him a horse. He climbed on its back and rode out to meet the rider.

 

“My lord,” the young man said breathlessly, once they reached each other and halted their horses. “Lord Rickon Stark calls for you in Winterfell. They are convening a meeting. He has asked for all of the lords to be present. He has told me to tell you it is a matter of great urgency.”

 

Sandor gave the boy a hard look. “Did he tell all of the lords that?”

 

The boy looked confused and shook his head. “I do not know, my lord. I was only sent to call upon you.”

 

“What is this meeting about, boy?”

 

“He has said Lady Sansa’s marriage to the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, is hereby annulled by a Council of Faith. They convened five days past and came to a decision rather quickly. Both parties consented. Lord Rickon is looking to marry her to one of the Northern lords—”

 

“I’ll leave at once,” Sandor replied gruffly, and he rode back his castle in haste. He prepared for a half day’s ride north to Winterfell and left with a small group of retainers who would not slow him down.

 

Once he reached Winterfell, he was escorted to the Great Hall. When Sandor walked in, all eyes turned to him. Sandor, still dressed in his riding clothes and armor, looked a sight compared to the rest of them in their finest flowery costumes. He was the last to arrive, it looked. Sandor gazed from side to side, and when he looked to Lord Rickon Stark, he inclined his head in respect.

 

“My lord,” Sandor rasped.

 

“Thank you for coming, Lord Clegane,” Rickon told him, sounding and acting more serious than his usual self. For a seven-year-old boy, he was malleable when he needed to be. _A good quality in a child liege lord_ , Sandor thought. The boy was nothing like Joffrey.

 

The rest of the lords were seated, and Sandor took a seat where one was available on one of the benches. Each table was piled in the center with food, but none of it held Sandor’s attention in the slightest. His eyes were on Rickon, and his ears were listening raptly to everything the boy the said.

 

“I have brought you all together to make a very important announcement,” Rickon announced, lifting his chin. “My sister, Lady Sansa, and her husband, Lord Tyrion Lannister, wished for us to call a Council of Faith to release them from what they both claimed was an unlawful marriage forced by the hand of Tywin Lannister, the false King Joffrey, and their ill councilors. The Council of Faith, after hearing all of the evidence, has declared Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion’s marriage to be null and void.”

 

A buzz erupted from the hall of lords, and Sandor’s jaw drew tight. His mouth twitched. Half of the men in the room with either married or too old, but some of them still had sons, though most of their firstborns died during the war. Many of the new young lords, whose fathers once held their place, were already wed, having wed soon after coming into their inheritance in order to work on having heirs of their own sooner rather than later.

 

There weren’t many who could contest Sandor, but it was foolish to think no one would try. He knew his birth and status were low for a daughter of the Stark brood, far too low in the eyes of many, but most of the Stark alliances had already been made before her arrival and Rickon didn’t need to sell her off to win someone’s support if the war was ending.

 

“I have arranged a new marriage for my sister, Lady Sansa,” Rickon continued, and the murmurs grew even more tumultuous as he spoke. “She is to be married to Lord Sandor Clegane of Castle Clegane, formerly known as Castle Cerwyn.”

 

Several stood up at once, chairs and stools clashing to the ground. Those around Sandor barely noticed him, and the giant of a man right beside Sandor stood up to bellow at the injustice of it all. The clamor was worse than a jeering crowd at a bar fight, and Jon Snow tried to call the attention of the lords back to Lord Rickon, but none of them would listen.

 

Sandor clenched his fist atop the table, lest it go to his sword hilt.

 

One voice rose above all of the others. “ _Silence_!” it cried out, and the room fell silent. The voice came from none other than Greatjon Umber, a man who narrowly escaped death at The Twins and remained a prisoner there for a long time after the Red Wedding. He was one of the few who could say he attended the Red Wedding and made it out alive, but he never boasted of it.

 

When he spoke, men listened.

 

“Where were your protests,” the Greatjon spat, “you _fine_ Northern lords, when Tywin Lannister sent Lord Eddard Stark’s youngest daughter, Lady Arya, to marry the Bastard of Bolton?”

 

The hushed quiet that followed his words brought a twitch of a smirk to Sandor’s face. Sandor watched the crowd from his seat, noticing how many of them cast their eyes to the floor.

 

“Aye,” the Greatjon mocked, “as I suspected . . . ”

 

“She was fraud!” a voice called out in defiance.

 

“Until Jon Snow marched on the Bastard of Bolton and recaptured Winterfell with King Stannis, you were all as ignorant as the day you suckled on your wet nurse’s teat,” the Greatjon bellowed. “All of you attended that blasphemy of a wedding, and not one of you spoke a word against it. Not a _word_. And now, you waggle your tongues at your _rightful_ lord’s decision.” The Greatjon hawked and spat at his feet to show what he thought about that. “It’s a disgrace in the eyes of all the Old Gods we hold dear,” he finished, “and I condemn any man who says otherwise.”

 

No one spoke against the Greatjon. The uncomfortable silence stretched on long as Lord Rickon Stark cast his gaze over everyone in the room. For a boy, he had a look of steel in his eyes. Sandor could believe the rumors about him on that island of cannibals.

 

Finally, Lord Rickon broke the silence. “Your honesty and loyalty are unmatched, Lord Umber. Thank you.” Rickon looked out among his men with cold eyes. “Now, who dissents? Who supports?”

 

There was no answer at first.

 

“I support,” came Greatjon Umber’s gruff voice.

 

Slow cries answered, “Aye,” and “I support,” and soon they echoed all throughout the room. Those who remained quiet looked for someone beside them to speak out against it. When no one did, they bowed their heads in agreement. More answers came. “I support,” they cried. “Aye!” others hollered.

 

When no one stood up to dissent, Lord Rickon Stark met Sandor’s eyes across the hall.

 

The boy’s look gave Sandor chills.

 

“We will have the wedding soon,” Lord Rickon called above their heads, keeping his gaze with Sandor. “We have had too much war and too much death. It would be good to have a time of happiness and duty to remind us what we fight for in these dark times.”

 

It was only for a moment, but Sandor swore he saw Jon Snow smile proudly beside Lord Rickon Stark before schooling his face straight again. Sandor snorted and cut his eyes away.

 

 _His words coming through the young boy’s mouth_ , Sandor thought. _Jon Snow, Lord of Winterfell_.

 

A hand clapped Sandor on his shoulder, drawing him out of his thoughts. He glared at first until he saw it was the Greatjon himself, and Lord Umber took a seat across from him at the table. Sandor mildly inclined his head out of respect for what was said earlier. “Greatjon,” he said.

 

“Clegane,” the Greatjon replied, his face stern. Finally, he raised his eyebrows and dug into the food before them. Sandor watched as the other man ripped off a chicken leg and dipped it in gravy before he took a large bite out of it, the gravy dribbling down into his beard. “Fine match you’ve won yourself, though you won’t hear any of these men praise you for it.”

 

“Don’t need any praise,” Sandor answered him roughly, wondering why the man came over to talk to him. Despite the outrage Lord Rickon’s announcement had made, none of the men even bothered to acknowledge Sandor’s presence in the room. It was purposeful on behalf of the lords. Sandor wasn’t good enough in their eyes to acknowledge. He fumed under the surface, but he wouldn’t let it show for Sansa’s sake. Her family’s sake as well.

 

The Greatjon seemed to be reading Sandor’s thoughts. “You’ve got to prove yourself, Clegane,” he said. “You may be a lord by Lord Stark’s decree, but you’re still a Lannister guard dog to these men. They’ll be watching you. They won’t say it, but their eyes will be on you and everything you do.” The Greatjon ripped off another piece of meat with his teeth and chewed. “And how you treat our Lady Sansa.”

 

Sandor looked up at that. There was no mirth in the Greatjon’s eyes, just the cold steeliness that said he too would be watching Sandor’s movements. There was no love in the old man’s eyes, but there was some measure of respect. They had quite a few things in common as soldiers, and through that, something of an understanding between one another. On the other hand, Sandor still wondered if he had to prove himself to this one, too.

 

“Why do you say that?” asked Sandor.

 

“She’s very dear to us,” the Greatjon told him, “and we only just got her back. Thanks to you, which everyone except for myself and Lord Stark has already forgotten. And maybe because of it he even gave you her hand and that lordship, but there’s a lot of sore little boys who won’t be so thankful of passing her from one Lannister to another.”

 

“I’m no Lannister,” Sandor jeered, showing his teeth through the ruin of his scowling mouth. “I was born a Clegane.”

 

“A servant of Lannister,” the Greatjon slowly reminded him, “is still a Lannister.”

 

Sandor’s eyes grew hot as well as his voice. “Is that your take on it?”

 

The Greatjon sat back in his seat with a low belly laugh. “I’m not your enemy, Clegane,” he said, sobering up as he gestured with his half-eaten chicken leg across the room beyond Sandor’s head. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in the North. The North remembers, as they say, and it doesn’t have any fond memories of you — or your masters.”

 

“My master,” Sandor rasped, “is Lord Stark.” With that, he rose from his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Umber, I’m leaving.”

 

The Greatjon didn’t try to stop him, nor did he call anything out as Sandor made his way out of the Great Hall in fumes. Sandor headed straight for the training yard in Winterfell to exercise his demons before he let them loose on some unsuspecting fool. Once he passed under the archway into the grounds and drew his sword, Sandor approached one of the dummies and heard a voice that froze him midstride.

 

“Ah, Clegane,” it said. “Congratulations on your betrothal to Lady Sansa Stark.”

 

The corner of Sandor’s mouth twitched. His sword hand itched against the hilt, wanting to swing it at some target. Today was not his day of all days, and this was the worst possible person he could have met in such a moment of anger. Sandor did not even turn around to face the half-man. His fingers gripped his sword handle tighter, and Lord Tyrion made his way around him, though at a safe distance, to see his face.

 

Tyrion was holding a wine sack, looking ever thoughtful as he rounded on Sandor. “You seem tense,” he simply said.

 

“Get out of my way, Imp,” Sandor snarled at him.

 

Tyrion frowned deeply. “Well, I only came to wish you well. If that is your wish, however, then I shall leave. Good day.”

 

Sandor watched as the half-man turned around and waddled away without a snide remark or witty comment to seal his exit. Sandor frowned himself, his anger dissipating, as his grip on the sword hilt eased up. His will to fight something was suddenly gone, filled with an empty hole where his wrath had been, and he slid the blade back into its scabbard at his side.

 

He said nothing as Tyrion hobbled off.

 

Sandor looked up at the sky. It was only evening, but it was winter and the sky grew dark early in the day. Its thousand tiny pin pricks of light shot through the mist of the clouds above, reminding him of a similar sky on a different night many years ago — on a dock with a cloak and staff, a young girl terrified in the night.

 

Though he desired her secretly for many years, Sandor never imagined marrying the girl from King’s Landing. He did not even know if he was suited for marriage. The thoughts brought back his fury, and he stormed from the training yard into the castle’s walls. Sandor grabbed the first servant girl he found by the shoulder, and demanded to be brought to Sansa. Terrified, the young girl nodded quickly and led the way.

 

The walk through the dimly lit corridors took too long, and his ire grew with each step. When the servant girl paused before a door and knocked on it, Sandor felt every muscle in his body tense up in anticipation. “M’lady,” she called out, “you have a visitor.”

 

It took a few moments, but Sansa cautiously opened the door due to the late hour and peered out. “Who is—” she began to ask, but she saw Sandor standing there and her lips formed a perfect ‘o’ as she softly gasped. Sandor put his hand on the door and pushed. Once he was inside, he shoved the door shut and barred it.

 

“Sandor,” Sansa said, and her breathing was ragged in her chest. Her face looked worried but happy all the same. She was dressed in her sleeping shift, crossing arms over her body like it was improper for him to see her like this when he had bloody well seen her naked before. “It’s late. You cannot—”

 

“I’ll do whatever I damn well please,” Sandor growled, and he approached her slowly like a dog corning its prey, but it was not fear he saw in her face. She was breathing heavily, but she was excited by his sudden intrusion.

 

“My lord—”

 

Sandor cornered her against the wall. His hand grasped the back of her head, not ungently. Sansa’s chest rose and fell, her cheeks flushed with color, and he couldn’t help but look down. Sandor pulled at the strings that kept her shift tied up to her throat, and it spilled loose. Sansa tilted her head up, baring her throat and giving him a good view of her bosom, despite her protests.

 

“My lord, this is not appropriate—”

 

“We are to be married,” he rasped, a finger lightly trailing down her soft cheek, “and you’re carrying my child. How is it not appropriate?”

 

Sansa had no words for him, but suddenly she seized up and covered herself with her hand. She seemed to shrink away from him, even though she had nowhere to go with her back against the wall. His mouth twitched at her silent response, and he spoke before thinking out of irritation at her and resentment from earlier.

 

“I haven’t been able to make love to my wife since we arrived here,” Sandor snarled at her. “And when I come to you, you pull away from me like I’m some beast who scares you. Would you rather I found a whore to warm my bed?”

 

His words struck Sansa as if they were his fist. Her horrified expression mingled with a fear in her eyes that he couldn’t read, and she looked torn between crying, screaming, or reaching out to him. Sansa swallowed down all of those reactions, stood straight, and lifted her chin.

 

“I am with child,” she said, her voice barely staying calm, “as you have so kindly pointed out. If I draw away, it is only because I would not risk harm to our baby. My lady mother said it was unsafe for a lady to be with her husband while she was with child.” Sansa’s composure finally broke. “I would not share you, but I cannot stop you.” Sansa drew in a deep breath, tears glistening in her eyes and threatening to spill over her cheeks. “You must make that decision yourself,” she finished, and her voice cracked against the pressure of trying to speak evenly.

 

Sandor felt absolutely awful.

 

He was a horrible person, and this only proved it. He couldn’t face her breaking down in front of him for his careless and heartless words, so he turned around to leave at once.

 

Sansa reached forward and grabbed his arm. “No, Sandor, please—”

 

Sandor froze, but he did not turn around. His body was taut like a bowstring, and Sansa felt it beneath her fingers. She immediately pulled her hand away from him as if she either feared his reaction or regretted her own. Maybe it was both. She sobbed in earnest now, and Sandor’s jaw clenched tight. He wasn’t angry at her. It was never because of her. It was only ever at himself.

 

“I’m so sorry, please,” Sansa begged, but she never begged. She never begged anyone for anything. “Please, do not go—”

 

Something inside of Sandor finally broke beneath the pressure, but instead of losing his control he somehow salvaged it from the wreckage. His overwrought nerves uncoiled themselves, and Sandor turned around to face her in the light of dozens of twinkling candles. His shadow loomed over her, casting a black shade over her and against the wall.

 

“I will share my bed with you,” Sansa pleaded. “Please, just don’t . . . ”

 

She could not say it. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to say _just don’t fuck another woman_ because, in her heart, she was afraid. She probably thought that if she said it out loud then he would go on and do it just to spite her. If he was a different man, he would do it. If he wasn’t so madly in love with her, he would fuck the first whore he found just to prove his point. Sandor was neither of those men, though, and he had no desire to keep being the brute when he could be better for her. More important than anything else to him was Sansa’s happiness, and this was not bringing it. This was not the way.

 

“I don’t deserve that,” he rasped quietly. He was tired, and it must have shown in his face. “I don’t deserve that from you, Sansa. You’re better than me. I want to make you happy, and all I do is make you miserable.”

 

Sansa’s lip trembled as she tried to breathe evenly. “We’re not in Pentos anymore, Sandor,” she said in a whisper. “Pentos was your world. This is mine.”

 

She was right, he realized. Sandor never lived this life of lords and ladies. He had lived a simpler existence day to day, surviving by what means were possible. There were no lines between acceptable and unacceptable. The two were one in the same where he came from. Maybe that was why this was so hard for him. Drawing lines had never been his specialty, unless they were in the sand.

 

“You fit in my world easy enough,” Sandor said. “Why can’t I fit in yours?”

 

Sansa slowly stepped forward, testing the waters between them. “You do,” she whispered. “Oh, Sandor, you do . . . ”

 

She came to him, and Sandor did not back away. Sansa seemed afraid to make the first move to touch him, so he drew her to him with his hand on the back of her hair. Sandor was careful with her like she was a doll, and Sansa wrapped her small arms around his middle, despite the uncomfortable press of his armor between them.

 

“At least let me stay the night with you,” he rasped, his hand bunching in her hair as he drew in the pleasant scent of it. Sansa nodded against him, clutching onto his sides.

 

“Yes,” she said.

 

When Sandor parted from her embrace, he made short work of his armor and boots. Whatever he did not need in bed went onto the floor, excepting his tunic and breeches, which he kept on for her sake and his own. Sansa had already put out most of the candles in her chamber and snuck into the bed. Sandor followed soon after her, pulling back the covers and sliding in behind Sansa. She was lying on her side, and he wrapped his arm around her middle, his chest fitting nicely against her back, and he laid his hand gently on her stomach.

 

Sansa’s hand covered his, and she threaded her fingers with his own. Sandor felt her steady breathing, and kissed the area behind her ear. “Goodnight,” he told her.

 

“Goodnight, Sandor,” she said. After a moment’s pause, Sansa whispered to the night, “I love you.”

 

He realized, in that moment, he never said it back before. As his hand twined with hers and he knew beneath their hands was a little life growing inside of her made by the two of them, Sandor thought the words could not be any more frightening than the feeling itself.

 

“I love you,” Sandor murmured back to her, the stillness of the night all around them, and Sansa’s hand gripped his hard underneath the covers.


	13. Promise on a Feather Pillow

_xiii._

 

As Sansa slowly woke from a pleasant sleep, she curled into herself before she remembered she was not in bed alone. Sandor was lying with his chest against her back, his bulking frame encasing her comfortably from behind, legs and all warm next to hers. Sansa felt his breath stir against her hair, and his arm was draped over her middle, his large hand atop her tummy in a protective gesture even in his sleep.

 

Sandor was more vulnerable while asleep than at any other time. Often in Pentos, Sansa would lie in bed and watch Sandor as he slept whenever she happened to wake up before him, which was more often than not. He looked so peaceful in those moments. Sansa drank them in greedily, like a child at a fountain in the middle of a summer’s heat.

 

Now, though, Sandor was wound around her too tightly for her to turn around in his embrace, so she settled for closing her eyes and sinking into the feather pillow. Her hand slid over his atop her belly, and she gently stroked his fingers. It was innocent and sweet, and so very nice to just lie with him like this. She smiled as she recalled his words the night before. _I love you_ , he had said, words he had never said to her before, but she had always believed he felt them.

 

Sandor stirred behind her and shifted in his sleep, and Sansa scooted backwards to get closer to him until she felt a familiar hardness against her bottom and froze. She gasped softly, realizing what it was, and Sandor moaned behind her, his hand straying from her belly to her thigh to gently stroke it. Sansa was turned on, even though she knew she shouldn’t be during her pregnancy, but her body didn’t seem to care about what she thought was normal. It seemed to have its own way of thinking, and instinctively, she pushed against Sandor’s bulge. He groaned this time, his fingers curling against her thigh and scratching her skin with his rough nails.

 

“I thought you said no to this,” Sandor murmured near her ear, his voice deep and laced with desire.

 

“I did,” Sansa breathed, her hand reaching back and finding his hip. She gripped him hard, nails digging, as she rubbed her bottom against him. Sandor grasped her thigh as well, pushing himself against her.

 

“You have a poor way of showing it,” he said, and he brought his arm around to cup her face. When Sandor bit her ear, Sansa shuddered and felt her body betray her further. Her desire was blooming, a wetness appearing between her legs, and he had barely touched her. Against all reasoning of her mother’s warnings, Sansa lifted her topmost leg to curl it over Sandor’s legs.

 

“Yes,” she replied, breathlessly. “I do.”

 

“Mm,” Sandor agreed with a deep rumble in his throat, and he slid his hand against her neck, then down her chest and over her stomach until he reached the hem of her nightgown. He teased her by gently touching the hem of her gown without actually touching her, but the presence of his hand was so close, and it did nothing to quell her desire. She could feel him running his finger along the hem, as patient as he could be, and he made no move to touch her.

 

Sansa groaned unhappily. “Please,” she said. “Sandor . . . ”

 

“Please, what?”

 

Sansa knew what he was doing. He was _playing_ with her. Her sharp intake of breath coupled with the quick turning of her head to get a look at him seemed to amuse Sandor. She caught his face halfway in the line of her sight, and he slid his fingers over her smallclothes. Sansa gasped for true this time. Her eyes drifted to a close as he worked slow ministrations against her through the thin cloth.

 

“Gods, you’re wet,” he rasped, his voice low in her ear. Sandor slid his hand into her smallclothes.

 

“Yes,” Sansa moaned, “yes.”

 

She was sure there had been nothing in her mother’s rules about this.

 

He hoisted her leg up, holding it in the crook of his arm, and attended her with his hand until she felt her whole body building up to a tight climax low in her abdomen. Sansa gasped and turned her head into the pillow to drown out her sounds as he slid a finger inside her, and then some time after he added another. Her body buckled under his ministrations as she cried out, sounding like an utter wanton, but Sandor didn’t mind at all; he was hard against her, and she reached around to get her hand between them and into his breeches.

 

Sansa grasped his manhood, firm and hot in her hand, and stroked him along with his motions. He lasted longer than she expected him too, her body giving into shocks three or four times before he finally came in her hand, utterly spent. Sansa felt the sweat on her brow and underneath her gown, and breathed deeply. Sandor lowered her leg with care and rested his arm over her again, his own breath ragged in her ear.

 

“You must see to your maester soon,” he said, each word coming out slow. “I don’t know how long I can take this. Let him tell you what’s safe and what’s not.”

 

Sansa released a ragged breath, nodding her head. “I will,” she agreed, and his hand came around to pull the hair away from her face. Sansa turned her head to kiss his hand, and his fingers grazed her cheek. It perhaps was not wise for him to linger too late in her room, but Sansa felt beyond caring at the moment. Later she might come to regret her decision to let him stay a little longer, but she could not tell when they would get a moment together again until the wedding day. She wanted to savor this time before it was taken away from them again.

 

Sandor’s eyes were dark, and Sansa turned onto her back to look at him more closely. “What is it?” she asked, a little worried but not overly so.

 

“Do you wish we stayed in Pentos?” he asked her.

 

Sansa hadn’t thought about it since they’d gotten back. She was happy to be home, of course, but then there were times people still looked at her like she was a child here. In Pentos she had the world at her feet, and Sandor there to give it to her. Here, there were rules. She had to wonder, now that she thought about it, if she had made the right decision in coming back.

 

But she had. Of course she had. She came back for her family. For Rickon, and for Jon. For the memory of her parents, for Bran, Arya, and Robb. For everything she was that she would never forget, and Sansa smiled at him, even if it was somewhat dim due to the sadness of her memories.

 

“I miss it,” she admitted. “Being able to do whatever we wanted when we wanted. It was nice there, but . . . it was like a dream. I was always afraid of waking up.”

 

“And here?” he asked, his eyes still holding that same dark stare.

 

Sansa shook her head. “No, I don’t feel that way here. It feels so real, like I’m already awake, and that makes it scarier,” she told him, and she grinned at his uncomprehending expression. “But good,” Sansa added, not wanting to alarm him. Sandor was quiet, though, and it worried Sansa. “What is it?” she asked him softly.

 

“They might ask me to go south,” he suddenly told her.

 

Sansa sat up at that, the shock apparent on her face. “They wouldn’t,” she said, shaking her head. “With our baby on the way. Jon knows—”

 

“It was his idea.”

 

Sansa’s mouth fell open in disbelief. _How could Jon, of all people_ , she thought. Jon couldn’t possibly expect her to live in that castle all by herself, waiting to give birth without her husband by her side. She was frightened enough as it was being pregnant for the first time in her life.

 

“You must tell him no,” she demanded.

 

“I’m in no position to do that,” Sandor warned her, the tone of his voice leaving no room for argument. He sat up now as well, and even sitting he towered over her.

 

“But it’s not fair—”

 

Sandor gritted his teeth. “And since when was life fair? Do you think I want to be away from my child when he’s born?”

 

Sansa looked down at her tummy, cupping its slight roundness in the crook of her arm. “You don’t know that it’s a boy,” she said petulantly.

 

“I don’t—” He sighed in frustration. “Sansa.” Sandor reached out his hand to take her by the shoulder to get her attention, and she gave him no reluctance when it came to meeting his gaze. She had been scared enough as it was, waiting in fetters to know whether or not she could even marry him. Now she had to watch him go before their child was even born and hope he came back in one piece.

 

“What did Jon say?” Sansa asked him. “Tell me true.”

 

Sandor’s hand fell from her shoulder. “He said he would travel south with the Imp a month after the wedding. He said your brother might order me to go.” The ruined half of his mouth twitched. “To prove myself,” Sandor added contemptuously.

 

“What did he say about me?” she whispered.

 

“You would stay in Winterfell, not Castle Cerwyn. Until the baby was born, or I returned.”

 

Sansa’s heart fell. “He makes it sound like you will not,” she said.

 

“Of course I will,” Sandor told her. “When have I not?”

 

He was right, of course. Sansa knew they were only going south to negotiate terms further as a sign of peace. The war was almost over, and they needed no more soldiers from the North to the fight the battles in the south. She placed her hand on top of his and looked him directly in the eyes. “Swear it,” she said.

 

“Swear what?”

 

“Swear to me you’ll come back,” she told him, “and I’ll be waiting for when you do.”

 

Sandor grasped her hand between both of his. “I swear it,” he said in a low voice. “Before the Old Gods and the New, for you and our child.”

 

Sansa never saw Sandor as a religious man. If anything, he mocked the gods and made light of them whenever he had the chance, but she believed him in that moment. Whether he truly believed in the Gods or not was of no consequence to her, only that he kept his word no matter what.

 

Sansa leaned over and captured Sandor’s lips in a kiss, and then she pushed him away playfully. “Now go,” she said with a smile, “before my brother flays you alive.”

 

Sandor removed himself from her bed, gathering all of his things together from the floor. Sansa watched as he put them back on one by one and marched to the door. When his hand was on the handle, he paused all of a sudden. Sansa wrinkled her nose in confusion, though there was a smile on her face, as he turned around and came back to the bed. Sandor bent down to kiss her hard on the mouth. Sansa moaned softly against his lips, reaching up to cup his face.

 

When he pulled away, Sandor laid a gentle kiss on her forehead before turning away to leave this time for good. The door closed quietly behind him.

 

Sansa sighed deeply. She had a wedding to prepare for, but now she did not know if she was ready to face it with the knowledge of what would come after. She was a Stark, though, and Starks were used to the winter winds. They were blowing her way, and she was just going to have to bear them.


	14. Before the Old Gods

_xiv._

 

The morning of the wedding was overcast with thick, rolling clouds, dark and grey above the world like a woolen blanket had been thrown over the sky. The threat of snowfall hung in them, but the morning and afternoon passed without a change in the weather. Even if it began to snow, the wedding would still commence. Despite the joyous occasion, it was in the dead of winter. The solemn air of Winterfell’s people reflected that, and it almost seemed a funeral was about to take place instead of a wedding.

 

Within the walls of Winterfell, most of the snow lying on the ground had been shoveled away to allow for easier passage on this day. Outside of its walls, the drifts reached up a few feet in some places. The stone pathways were treacherous things, slick with ice, and rugs had been thrown over them for the procession. Hoarfrost had grown over every window, and its growth over the Glass Gardens looked like white moss spreading over its panes.

 

Deep in the godswood, it was somehow warmer. The ground wasn’t frozen, but as the heat rose from the hot pools, it curled upward like smoke once it touched the winter air. Carved into the trunk of the weirwood tree’s white bark was a blood-red face with weeping eyes. Its eyes were like the gashes of deep wounds, weeping blood.

 

Sandor stared at that face. It was unnerving to look at, but he couldn’t look away. He heard Lord Rickon Stark laugh, and it pulled his attention away from the tree. Sandor looked out at the crowd, a quiet and sullen parade of Northerners. The only one smiling was Lord Rickon as he sat upon his carved chair. Sandor recalled a conversation, or an argument more like, in which Lord Rickon refused to give Sansa away because he was too young, it was too serious, and he was the lord, so he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to do it.

 

At least, those were the excuses put forth by the little lord. Instead of giving away Sansa’s hand, he deferred it to someone else’s responsibility, which allowed him to sit in his high chair and watch on happily, uninvolved in the matter itself.

 

Attention in the crowd stirred and turned to look upon two figures emerging from the gloom beyond the throng of bodies. Sandor raised his eyes to see, at first, a figure dressed in mostly black with grey trim. The black stood out against the white world around them, and Sandor recognized the face of Jon Snow.

 

On Jon Snow’s arm was his bride, Sansa Stark. She wore a lambs-wool gown of white with grey trim, a heavy wool cloak pinned about her shoulders. As she drew closer with her half-brother, he could make out the string of pearls around her neck and wrists. Her gown was long, trailing behind her in the dirt and small patches of snow that managed to fall through the thick canopy of leaves above their heads.

 

Sandor himself had been dressed in his true colors, a black velvet doublet slashed with yellow silk. His leather boots were black also, thick and sturdy. Having nothing with his colors when he came to Winterfell, they were made for him especial for the wedding, including the cloak he was meant to give to Sansa. It was heavy wool, like Sansa’s cloak, but it was yellow instead of white and trimmed with black instead of grey. Emblazoned on the back was the sigil of his house, three dogs running across a yellow field.

 

Sansa stopped before him with Jon Snow still at her side. Jon held her arm, but her eyes were on Sandor. He knew the words he had to speak.

 

“Who comes?” Sandor asked, his voice rough against the silence around them. “Who comes before the god?”

 

Jon Snow answered him. “Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

 

“Me,” Sandor said, remembering the words. He had only rehearsed the whole thing twenty times in his head. “Sandor of House Clegane, Lord of Clegane Castle, heir to Clegane’s Keep. I claim her. Who gives her?”

 

Jon’s eyes veered briefly to Lord Rickon before meeting Sandor’s once more. “Jon Snow, natural son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,” he said. Jon then turned to Sansa, holding both of her hands between his own as he stood before her. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?”

 

There was the softest smile upon Sansa’s lips. “I take this man,” she said, her voice carrying across the crowd for everyone to hear.

 

Jon Snow released Sansa’s hands, stepping back. Sandor took Sansa’s hand, and the two of them knelt before the weirwood tree. Its bloody face stared at him, mocking him. _You don’t belong here_ , it said. _You aren’t of the North_. Sandor bowed his head and closed his eyes. He was told bowing his head was a submission to the gods, but he didn’t believe in gods, so he wondered what that made him.

 

After a moment of silence, Sandor rose again with Sansa’s hand still in his grasp. He released her hand to unfasten the cloak about her shoulders, her bride’s cloak emblazoned with the direwolf of House Stark. Putting it aside, he fastened a new cloak over her shoulders, the one bearing the colors and sigil of House Clegane. Just like that, it was done.

 

Music began to play again, and Sandor took Sansa by the hand and led her from the godswood. The crowd spilled out behind them, following the couple back to the castle.

 

“Our first wedding wasn’t this fast,” Sandor said, the corner of his mouth twitching. It was almost a smile, but not quite.

 

Sansa giggled beside him. “No, it wasn’t,” she said, and she moved closer to his side to lean into him. “And another wedding night, too . . . ”

 

Sandor’s hoarse laugh answered her. “Careful, woman. You might shock some lord’s soft ears.”

 

Sansa gently slapped his arm. “Don’t call me ‘woman,’” she teased. “I’m your lady. You should call me ‘ _my lady_.’”

 

“As you wish, my lady,” Sandor rasped, and when he looked down at Sansa beside him, she was looking up at him with a smile.

 

“See, was that so hard?”

 

“Terrible,” Sandor told her. “I think my tongue might fall off.”

 

Sansa slapped him again. “Sandor,” she warned him, but she was trying to hold back a laugh and he didn’t believe her for a second. “What should we do once we are inside?” she asked him. “Are you hungry enough to stay for the feast, or should we retire early?”

 

“Well, I am hungry,” he began, and when he looked down at her again, Sansa almost looked hurt. Sometimes it was too easy with her. She believed everything. His eyes grew dark as he stared at her. “For my wife out of her wedding gown,” he growled beneath his breath, and Sansa turned a pretty shade of pink to match her hair.

 

They could not leave immediately once they entered the Great Hall for the feast. It was expected for there to be a toast, so they took their seats and waited for everyone to file into the hall and take their own places amongst the tables. Food was brought out from the kitchens, plates upon plates of lavish meals like roast pork with apples and berries, seasoned leek soup, cheese pies, and Sansa’s favorite, lemon cakes.

 

The two of them stayed for a little while for the celebration, but eventually, Sandor rose from his seat and he helped Sansa from hers as well. They left the top table, and he helped her down the steps. They were almost at the door, passing by the last table on the way out, when Sandor heard it.

 

“ . . . fitting a bastard gave her away, considering who she’s been married off to—”

 

For the last few years, Sandor had been good at managing his temper. It came and went in flares, but most of the time, he could get it under his control. If it were not for the slight at Sansa, he might have kept walking, but because of it, he did not.

 

Sansa sensed it immediately, or maybe she heard the comment as well, because she clenched his hand hard and tugged on it. Sandor turned to her, and Sansa was shaking her head at him. “Please, no,” she whispered, sounding afraid, “not on our wedding, Sandor.”

 

It took everything in him to take a deep breath and keep walking until they reached the doors and walked past them, safe out of distance of the man who spoke the words, but his ire followed them all the way to their chambers for the night. Once inside of the room, Sandor walked straight up to the bed and sat on the edge of it. Sansa closed the door behind him, shedding her cloak at the foot of the bed, and moved to sit beside him. Her small arm curled around his and held it, her hand rubbing up and down his arm in a soothing gesture.

 

“Please, Sandor,” she said, and she reached out for his face to touch his chin with delicate fingers. “Look at me.”

 

He looked at her, but he didn’t really see her. She was a blur to his eyes, a thing of perfection that was never meant to be his and the _fools_ here—or were they wise men—were always quick to remind him of the fact. Her face, though blurry, looked sadder than he ever remembered seeing it before, even after all the cruel things he had said to her in the past. Somehow, in that moment, she never looked more heartbroken.

 

“Oh, Sandor,” she whispered, and Sandor felt her arms take him into a hug, embracing him gently. After a moment, she scooted back on the bed and pulled him with her. He went willingly. When she lied down, he lied down as well. Only Sansa cradled his head on her shoulder, her arms wrapped around him once more, and she brushed her fingers through his hair as she started to sing in a soft voice a gentle hymn she sang to him once before a lifetime ago on a different bed, in a different city, and in a different world.

 

He never even realized his eyes had been blurry because of the tears, or how they fell into her wedding dress and left little stains on the pure white fabric.


	15. The Road to Summerhall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of writer's block with this story two chapters ago, but it seems to be gone now, so I'm thankful for that. This chapter might be the longest one yet, but we're finally getting into some real plot, so that might increase the lengthiness. Also, Daenerys makes her appearance finally! Chapters will start to alternate between what's going on in the south and what's going on in the North, so the next chapter will be a Sansa POV. All feedback is welcomed, including constructive criticism! I hope you all enjoy this as usual!

_xv._

 

The departure from Winterfell came sooner than expected for Sandor. Jon Snow had come to him not but a fortnight from the wedding day and insisted they leave as soon as possible and begin preparing for the journey straight away. Sandor had not been happy about this, but he had been expecting it since before the wedding, so it came as no surprise. The news struck him early, but in his mind he was already conscious of what was to come.

 

Packing had been easy. Sansa insisted on helping him there, but saying his goodbye to her was going to be the hardest part of leaving. No matter how many preparations he made in advance for the journey south, Sandor was not prepared for that and no amount of beforehand knowledge would have made it any easier or would have lessened the ache.

 

Sansa stood before him wrapped in her winter’s best, a woolen grey scarf laid across the top of her hair and wrapped around her neck. Her cheeks were bit by the cold, having turned cherry red against the paleness of her face, and she smiled at him happily despite the look of sorrow in her eyes. Sansa’s hands were laid on his chest as she spoke to him.

 

“Remember to always keep an eye out,” she told him, her face calm but her voice unsteady. She was talking too fast, though she didn’t seem to notice it. “Make sure that someone stands watch every night, and don’t go to sleep if no one is awake, and remember—”

 

“Sansa,” Sandor told her softly, taking her by the arms, “I know these things. I’ve done them more than you.”

 

He understood she was only worried for him, but the speech wasn’t necessary. Her face moved through two or three emotions before she looked so confused that she didn’t know what to do. Then, in front of everyone who came out to see the departure from Winterfell, Sansa threw her arms around Sandor’s neck and buried the side of her face against his chest and the soft furs of his cloak.

 

Sandor was self-conscious of the looks people gave them. He saw the shocked faces of some, heard the murmur of sudden chatter, and noticed how some of them even looked away as if they could not believe what they saw before them. They probably all thought she despised having to marry him. _What a trial for the poor girl to marry a beastly man like him_ , the women said in hushed whispers. What the men said was far worse.

 

However, Sansa was completely oblivious to it all. She pulled away from him, stood on her toes, and kissed him on the lips in front of everybody. Sandor closed his eyes, ignoring the murmuring chatter, and focused on his wife’s soft lips against his own. He didn’t care how improper it was for them to kiss in public. Sansa parted her lips, and he delved his tongue past them, eliciting a soft moan from her throat.

 

If the damn Northerners wanted to talk, he’d give them something to talk about.

 

When they broke apart, they had more color to their faces than anyone in the entire crowd. Sandor’s hand somehow found its way to her hair, and he kissed her forehead and pulled away to look her in the eyes. “Stay safe, Sansa,” he told her, and he placed his hand just barely on her belly, making sure no one could see the gesture as he used his cloak to hide it, “and keep the little one safe.”

 

When he mounted his horse at last, he noticed the looks on Jon Snow and Tyrion’s faces, but he kept his mouth shut. Let them be bothered or annoyed, he didn’t care. They had no wives to say farewell to.

 

They trotted off, but Sandor looked back before she disappeared from sight. He wanted one last glimpse of Sansa to remember, and she saw him looking and smiled, waving her hand goodbye. He dipped his head at her before turning his attention forward again, and they left through the gates of Winterfell with a large group of retainers for safety as they headed for the Kingsroad.

 

Sandor travelled mostly in quiet, but Jon Snow and Tyrion liked to pass the time by talking. Everyday they had something to say to one another, and the two of them managed to carry on conversations for hours while Sandor tuned them out to enjoy the scenery. Before they left the North entirely, they were halted one day for lunch, when a particularly interesting conversation had been brought up.

 

Jon was still laughing hard at one of the little lord’s previous jokes, but he took a bite off a piece of hard cheese and began to calm down. “So, Lord Tyrion,” Jon said, changing the topic to something more serious, “do you have any plans to marry again?”

 

Sandor looked up at that. He was interested in hearing the answer to that.

 

Tyrion looked thoughtful, but then he shook his head. “I do not think marriage is suited to me, Jon. It is an institution for men lucky enough to find a woman with either a favorable predisposition towards him or tolerance to the idea of bedding him.” Tyrion raised his brow at that as well as his shoulders. “I have had no such luck with noble ladies,” he added. “It’s why I have a history of whoring.”

 

The words came out of Sandor’s mouth before he could stop them. “A woman is a woman,” Sandor said as if to argue with Tyrion. “Paying a whore coin doesn’t mean she wants to sleep with you.”

 

“Yes,” Tyrion agreed, “but it does begin a trade of services for coin.”

 

“That doesn’t mean she’s willing.”

 

Tyrion pursed his lips as his face took on a light shade of red. “Is there a purpose to this conversation?”

 

“There’s not a difference between sleeping with a woman without coin and sleeping with a woman with coin. They do it for the money, not your cock,” Sandor argued with him. “Either a woman wants you or she doesn’t. Whore or peasant or nobleman’s daughter doesn’t matter.”

 

At this point, Jon Snow was trying his best to hold back a grin, and he had to cough into his hand to suppress a laugh from coming out.

 

“You think this is funny?” Tyrion exclaimed, turning on Jon. “Are you on his side now?”

 

“I’m on nobody’s side,” Jon said with a laugh, shaking his head. He leaned back in his chair and held out his arms. “You two go ahead, debate away. I’m just here for the food.”

 

Tyrion rounded on Sandor again, pointing his finger at him. “Well, I fail to see what the meaning of your argument is in the first place. Of course there is a difference between a noblewoman and whore,” he said hotly.

 

“In courtesy and experience, maybe,” Sandor said. “I won’t argue with you there, but you talk of whores like they’re chattel.”

 

“They’re _merchants_ ,” Tyrion said. “Really good and really . . . experienced merchants.”

 

“But they’re women,” Sandor countered, finally snapping on the little lord as he spoke through his gritted teeth. “So stop acting all pious and _noble_ because you didn’t bed your wife.”

 

“Oh, so this is what it is all about?” Tyrion said, his eyes slowly going wide as they got to the heart of the matter. “ _Sansa_?” Tyrion turned on Jon, gesturing at Sandor. “You would think he’d be happy about me not bedding his wife, but instead he’s angry with me—”

 

Sandor rose suddenly from the table, his knees knocking into it and sending everything rattling on its hinges. Cup and plate and utensil danced before falling still. The other two men looked shocked, only Jon was halfway between anger and wariness as he stared down Sandor and Tyrion just looked positively afraid of him.

 

“I’m not angry with you, Imp, because you didn’t bed my wife,” Sandor ground out between his teeth. “I’m angry because I know how you treat your wives. So spare me your false piety, and tell me the real reason why you didn’t bed Sansa when you married her.”

 

Jon’s eyes went wide at such a question, and he looked like he might bring a stop to the whole conversation if one more inappropriate thing was said about his sister, but Tyrion narrowed his eyes at Sandor and answered him with careful precision.

 

“I am many things,” Tyrion said slowly, “but I am not a man who will force a woman to lie with me. She will lie with me willingly or because I pay her with coin.” His lips tightened at this. “Sansa was not willing. She was only a child. Far too young and scared out of her mind. Do you take me for a monster, _Lord_ Clegane?”

 

“I heard what happened to your first wife,” Sandor said, his voice low and dangerous.

 

“Oh?” Tyrion asked, his voice becoming unnaturally high. He was nervous. “And what did you hear?”

 

“That you let all your father’s guards rape her as you watched, and then you went last and gave her a gold coin before sending her off.”

 

Even Jon Snow was taken by surprise with this bit of news, but it was Lord Tyrion who answered the accusation.

 

“I was thirteen,” Tyrion managed to say, but the words were hard for him to speak because they wanted to stick inside of his throat. “I fell in love with a crofter’s daughter, and so I married her because I thought she loved me. Then my father found out, and my brother Jaime said she was a whore paid to bed me to make me a man and nothing more. My father was so insulted by the idea of me marrying a whore that _he_ passed her around to his guards, giving them each a silver coin to pay her with for her troubles. After that, he made me go last and pay her with a gold coin because Lannisters are worth more.”

 

Neither Jon nor Sandor dared to interrupt as Tyrion took a moment to pause and collect himself. The memory was a hard one to relive for the little lord. When Tyrion took a deep breath, his chest shook unevenly.

 

“Jaime came to me years later,” Tyrion continued, “after he freed me from my cell in King’s Landing, and told me she really was a crofter’s daughter. My father made him tell me a lie about her being a whore, but how was I to know at thirteen what the truth was? Me, my brother, even my sister, we were all afraid of my father. We did what he said or he made us do it anyway. He made me rape Tysha after a hundred of his guards had their way with her, and I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with whores because of it. I paid my father back, though. I paid him back with a crossbow to the bowels, and he shit out his last breath as he sat on the privy . . . ” Tyrion’s emotions played openly across his face, but then it became like a mask as he looked up at Sandor. Tyrion glared at Sandor with sternness unbecoming to his small face, and for a moment, Sandor thought he saw Tywin looking back at him. “So, Lord Clegane,” he mocked, “don’t tell me you know how I treat my _wives_.”

 

With that, Tyrion got up from the table and hobbled off towards his tent. Sandor watched as the little lord disappeared past the flaps, and he slowly sat back down in his chair. He met Jon Snow’s gaze over the table. Jon was glaring at him.

 

“Was that necessary, my lord?” Jon asked, his voice stiff and his posture too straight. One of his hands rested flat against the table.

 

“For me, yes,” Sandor rasped. “For him . . . ” Sandor shook his head. “No.”

 

Jon let out a sigh and leaned forward, grabbing an apple off the table. “At least you admit it,” he said, and he took a bite of the fruit. They finished their meal in relative silence that day and continued on the journey south along the Kingsroad once more.

 

Tyrion was silent for a few days, but eventually he returned to his usual talkative self. No apologies were exchanged between the men, but none seemed to be needed. One morning as they readied the horses, Sandor found it in himself to make eye contact with Tyrion and respectfully nodded his head in a curt silence. Tyrion returned the nod, and everything went back to normal. There was a silent acceptance of what had occurred just days prior, and no more was said of it.

 

The rest of the way south through the bog and marshlands was unhindered and uneventful, and a deadly stillness had descended upon the land once they ventured past the Neck. Sandor noticed the lack of people in the landscape. It seemed the whole of the country was hiding away from sight. Whether it was out of fear or because the war had slaughtered them all, Sandor couldn’t say. He saw wooden posts and mounds set up along some of the roads, and cairns built in the distance in little pockets beneath the trees.

 

The world was a graveyard, and they were the ghosts marching along its empty face.

 

It took well over a month of travelling before they drew towards King’s Landing. Even in the distance, the ruinous remains of the Red Keep could be seen like a black spot on the landscape. It was Harrenhal all over again. Sandor halted his horse, staring at it with the fear of a man who knew what caused that ruin. _Dragons_. It only just dawned on him what lay south with Daenerys Targaryen. Three fire-breathing monsters made of living flame.

 

The Red Keep was red no longer, but blackened and broken like scorched wood after a roaring fire. Pieces of the structure were missing, having either fallen away after the fire or knocked away by the tail of something big and strong with wings. A whole tower had crumbled away like ash, and what was left of its chipped and sharp pinnacle aimed towards the sky, impaling the clouds. From where they stood on the road, the city looked like a deserted wasteland.

 

“What did this?” Sandor asked, despite already knowing the answer.

 

“What do you think did this, my friend?” Tyrion asked, having brought his pony around to the side of Sandor’s horse. “Dragons,” the little lord added, staring ahead with Sandor. “What else?”

 

“It’s unnatural,” Sandor said, shaking his head. “How many people did she burn alive in there?”

 

Tyrion shrugged. “All the ones she needed to.”

 

Jon Snow had turned his horse around as well once he saw that Sandor and Tyrion had stopped moving. His horse trotted back to them, and Jon must have noticed the look on Sandor’s face. “It was necessary,” Jon agreed with Tyrion. “There can only be one king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and King Stannis refused to surrender. It was to the death for him, and he got his wish.”

 

“But with _fire_ —” Sandor began, and he couldn’t finish even it.

 

“I imagine,” Tyrion said carefully, “it is not your favorite thing in the world, but every conqueror needs a great weapon. Queen Daenerys has dragons and the Unsullied.”

 

“Real men fight face to face with steel,” Sandor sneered, finding himself growing angry. This was not what he had signed up for when he agreed to go south. The last thing he wanted to see was dragons. Sandor would be far happier with a thousand leagues of sea between him and those fire-breathing monstrosities.

 

“To be fair,” Tyrion said, “Queen Daenerys is not a man.”

 

“Lord Tyrion, you are not helping,” Jon Snow warned him. “Lord Clegane, we have come all this way to settle a peace treaty. There will be no fighting. We will meet her, greet her, dine with her, laugh with her, pledge our allegiance, and end this war. The dragons may not even be anywhere near her. According to Lord Tyrion’s report in Winterfell, she sent two of them south to Dorne to help burn Aegon’s armies. They will not be there with her, so there is nothing to fear.”

 

“Two?” Sandor asked, his voice scornful. “Where is the other one, then?”

 

“You didn’t think she would part with all of them at once, did you?” Tyrion responded with amusement. “Drogon, the big black one, is with her.” Tyrion leaned over to Sandor, putting a cupped hand beside his mouth. “That one’s her favorite,” he added.

 

“Lord _Tyrion_ ,” Jon Snow ground out.

 

“Oh, all right,” Tyrion exclaimed, throwing up an arm. “Take all the fun out of it. You two girls talk this one out, and I’ll be ahead with the retainers before they think we’re stopping the night here in the shadow of that godforsaken city.” Tyrion trotted his pony ahead to their halted group, many of whom were looking back expectantly at them.

 

“I’m going to kill him in his sleep,” Sandor growled, watching as Tyrion’s back retreated from them.

 

“You will do no such thing,” Jon said, though he didn’t sound like he truly believed Sandor.

 

“You don’t know me very well, boy.”

 

Jon stood up a little straighter in his saddle as he held the reins of his horse. His eyes became cold, his face defiant. In the way Jon carried himself, Sandor saw traces of Lord Eddard Stark in the boy. Jon Snow was just as foolishly honorable, too. He seemed to have a smarter head on his shoulders than his father, though. Jon Snow knew when to bow, when to fight, when to step forward, and when to take a step back.

 

“No, I don’t,” Jon admitted. “But my sister has put her trust in you, and so have I because of her. I brought you with us for a reason, Lord Clegane, and it is not because I do not trust you. Sansa would not love you if you were not an honorable man, so this façade you may drop in my presence if you can bring yourself to do so. I want us to be like brothers in the eyes of the gods for the oath you swore to my sister. I have lost many brothers in this war, a sister, a father . . . and they will never be returned to me and my family ever again, but the gods have brought you into our family for a purpose.”

 

Jon Snow held out his arm. His hand was open, waiting for something. Sandor looked down at the boy’s outstretched hand, knowing what he expected of him. Sandor hesitated, not knowing how to answer him, and glanced up at the boy’s young face, but Jon’s eyes were old and tired.

 

“Believe in it or don’t,” Jon said quietly, “but if you love my sister as I believe you do, you will not find this request so hard to meet.”

 

Sandor stared at the boy for what felt like an eternity. Sandor never had a brother he didn’t despise with every fiber of his being. A brother was something to hate, something to fear, never a family to him. He didn’t know if he could ever look at Jon Snow as a brother like the boy wanted him to, but Sandor found he couldn’t reject Jon’s wishes either.

 

He barely even noticed the sun was sinking low in the horizon to the west, bruising the sky with vibrant patches of crimson and violet, until he saw the glint of pink on Jon’s face and chain mail. Finally, Sandor reached out and clasped Jon Snow’s arm. Jon clasped back, and they met eye to eye for one long moment before Jon nodded at him. Sandor nodded as well, and they released their grasp on each other.

 

“Are you ladies done talking?” Tyrion called out impatiently. “The sun is setting, and our Dragon Queen awaits our arrival.”

 

Jon bit back a small smile as he wheeled his horse around, his courser trotting forward to join the rest of the party ahead on the road. Sandor, though still reluctant, tightly grasped the reins in his hands and led his horse towards the group as well.

 

“Where is she, this queen?” Sandor asked once he reached them shortly after Jon.

 

“She is in the fields at Summerhall,” Tyrion replied. “We still have quite the journey ahead of us.”

 

“Why Summerhall?”

 

“Because kings and queens were born there,” Tyrion said softly, “and prophecies were spoken, and a prince was promised . . . ”

 

Sandor heard the tales before, but he never put an ounce of belief in them. He looked over at Jon to see if the boy thought this was equally ridiculous, but Jon’s face had taken on a dark and somber quality as he rode on his horse beside them. Sandor scowled and looked away. Their heads were filled with fairytales, and he wanted no part of it.

 

They camped not too far off from the Roseroad on the edge of the Kingswood, and in the morning they followed the edge of the Kingswood south for a week. They weren’t on the road anymore, so they had to be careful to not lose their way or travel too far off in the wrong direction. Until Tyrion instructed otherwise, they kept a path straight southward with the forest looming on their left and the open plains of the Reach to their right.

 

Mountains cropped up in the distance, and Tyrion point to the largest one, which also happened to be the last one on the right. “We will need to go west around that mountain,” he said. “Summerhall will be visible once we reach the other side.”

 

When they passed the mountain, Sandor couldn’t have been more anxious than he was in that moment. They stood on elevated land, which sloped down into green fields still untouched by winter, and at the bottom of that steep slope in the middle of those green fields was a host unlike anything Sandor had ever seen before in his life.

 

The encampment stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction, south, east, and west. Thousands of tents were erected across the plains of varying colors with no banners or sigils flying in the faint wind, but there was double or maybe even triple the amount of people as there were tents, and in the center of it all stood a tall, looming structure of dark and grey stone in the fading sun of the evening.

 

“Summerhall,” Jon Snow said, and his voice was a breathless whisper.

 

“That would be it,” Tyrion said, and he began to lead his pony carefully down the sloped terrain. “We must be quick. I bet they are serving supper now, and I don’t know about you, but I am tired of dried meat and hard bread.”

 

The company made its way towards Summerhall without any further wait. Sandor expected for them to be stopped by guards or soldiers once they drew close to the encampment, but Tyrion raised his hand as they rode up and the little lord was recognized immediately.

 

“Lord Tyrion,” they greeted him, and Tyrion smiled at them and bowed his head as he passed. Sandor couldn’t tell if the men were guards or soldiers or savages. He saw a mix of everything thrown together, a melting pot of cultures and warriors. It was jarring, and he found himself looking at the face of every man and woman they passed by. He wondered why this Dragon Queen would have women in her army, or was this even an army? Were these just the poor people she carried across the Narrow Sea with her?

 

It was nightfall by the time they reached the center of the encampment. Tyrion dismounted his horse, and Sandor and Jon did the same. The northmen retainers, who came with them to add numbers to Tyrion’s men who rode from the south with the little lord, looked just as nervous as Jon and Sandor.

 

They stood before the entrance of Summerhall’s ruins. Despite its sight of decay, the structure was still mostly in one piece and it had been decorated as if the Dragon Queen had made her home here for some time now. Sandor could see lanterns strung up inside, lighting the great hall within, and the warm orange glow shone through the glassless windows of the ruined stone.

 

From the open entrance came a young girl of no more than ten and two, her skin as dark as ebony and her hair in tight coils of curls. She stood as straight as a wick, her hands folded before her, and she raised her chin before she spoke.

 

“All kneel for Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles, and Mother of Dragons,” the girl announced in a clear, high voice.

 

Tyrion kneeled first. Sandor looked to his left and saw everyone within earshot kneeling to the ground, bowing their heads. He looked to his right and watched as a sea of people took to the ground like an ocean tidal wave just pulled them to their knees. When Sandor glanced at Jon, the boy had bent the knee as well, head bowed in silent acquiescence.

 

Sandor looked ahead and saw as a figure emerged from the ruins of Summerhall.

 

Dressed in a simple lavender gown of summer silk, she stepped forward on dainty feet strapped with jeweled sandals. Around her pale neck was a string of amethysts, and her hair spilled down her shoulders in long waves of pale silver and gold. On her head she wore no crown, but a small jeweled headpiece laced into her hair. She looked across the crowd with eyes of purple, kind and loving, until she looked at Sandor.

 

There was cold calculation in her eyes. She looked to be no more than the age of Sansa, but in her eyes were the cruelties of the world and the hard lessons that came with them. She descended the steps all the while watching him, and it wasn’t until she reached him that Sandor realized how every damn fool here was kneeling but him.

 

Sandor slowly bent his head and lowered one knee to the grass, hoping it wasn’t too late. He had kneeled for kings before, but never a queen.

 

“What is your name?” she asked him. She was close enough Sandor could see the shape of the jewels on her sandals. For some reason, it made him increasingly uncomfortable. People never stood this close to him.

 

“Sandor Clegane,” he rasped, praying she never heard his family’s name before.

 

“Clegane,” she repeated, as if there was a familiarity to his name for her. “I seem to recall that name, but I know not where from. You will tell me more of yourself soon enough.” Then, in a gesture that startled Sandor, she reached out and touched his chin. Instinctively, Sandor pulled away from her hand. He looked up at the girl, narrowing his eyes. His shock as well as his displeasure was plain on his face. No one touched him like that. No one, not ever. Only Sansa had ever dared, and only Sansa was ever allowed to go that far.

 

The girl, Daenerys, was smiling down at him. “Come,” she said, amusement bubbling beneath her voice. “I will not hurt you.” Daenerys reached out for his chin once more, and Sandor pulled back again, but she was insistent. She halted her hand as he pulled away, but when he stilled, she slowly extended her slender, cool fingers yet again towards his chin.

 

Sandor let her this time.

 

Daenerys smiled at him, gently inciting him to rise to his feet with her hand. He rose, and she studied his face with interest before stepping back from him. Turning around on her heels, she returned to the steps of Summerhall. She turned around once more, facing the crowd. “Rise,” she said, her voice carrying across the heads of hundreds. “And come, Lord Tyrion, with your friends. We have much to discuss.”


	16. Bountiful Blessings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will start to alternate between what's going on in the south and what's going on in the North until Sandor and Sansa are reunited again. As usual, I hope you all enjoy! <3

_xvi._

 

Sansa knew she could not hide her pregnancy forever. When she began to show beyond all of her attempts to cover it up, she gave up trying to conceal it with thicker dresses and extra layers and let the roundness of her belly show despite her fear of what reactions it would bring from the residents of Winterfell. According to the maester, Sansa was in her fifth month. She had thought when she told Jon that she was only three months along, but the maester informed her she was much further along than they had anticipated and it made her wonder when she had conceived the baby with Sandor. It was a silly thought to ask herself, but now she questioned if it was before or after their first wedding. It wasn’t as if it mattered now, but it had crossed her thoughts.

 

Though she expected to receive disdain for her pregnancy, Sansa was pleasantly surprised by how opposite the reaction was from those around her. The women couldn’t stop fawning over her, and the men were more courteous and cordial than she remembered them being before Sandor went away to the south with Jon and Tyrion. Everywhere she went, someone was offering her help. It was sweet, but sometimes Sansa found herself overwhelmed with all of the attention. She could walk just fine on her own. She was with child, not crippled, and she didn’t need help getting from one side of the room to the other.

 

Sansa supposed with all of the death the North had seen that it was joyous to see another life being brought into the world. The women made gifts for her baby, and she accepted them gladly. “Will it be a boy or a girl?” some of them asked, but Sansa didn’t know anymore than they did, and she just shook her head and laughed at all of the questions.

 

She sat in her room, practicing needlework with her handmaiden Alys, when an unexpected knock came at her door. Alys put down her things and went to answer the door. Sansa was surprised to see one of her brother’s youngest guards standing on the other side, his back straight and his chin held high. She briefly remembered his name was Willem. He bowed his head politely in Sansa’s direction.

 

“Lord Stark requests your presence, my lady,” Willem informed her.

 

Carefully placing her things aside, Sansa looked up at him with confusion painted clear across her face. Sometimes someone came to tell her that Lord Rickon wished to dine with her, and other times someone came to say that Lord Rickon wished to spend time with her, but never had someone come to her like this and said he had requested her presence. It couldn’t have been serious, she hoped, so she pushed aside her worrisome thoughts and rose from her chair.

 

“Nothing is wrong, I hope?” she asked, and Alys came to her side to take her by the arm. Sansa was used to it by now, so she stopped becoming frustrated with the younger girl. Alys only worried for her in her condition, even though it was completely unnecessary. Sansa wasn’t so far along that she needed help walking, but Alys insisted on it until Sansa had given up protesting altogether since it was pointless.

 

At her question, the young man shook his head. “No, my lady,” Willem said. “Lord Stark wishes you to meet someone. They are waiting downstairs.”

 

Sansa’s mind ran through all of the possible people her brother might want her to meet, but she came up short in her search. With Alys at her side and the young guardsman ahead, they left her room and descended the staircase down the hallway. Sansa found herself lightly grasping Alys’s arm as trepidation eased its way into her heart. She hoped it was not someone she did not want to meet. It would be like Rickon to spring something unexpected on her and not realize how it might upset her.

 

His direwolf, Shaggydog, had proved that just a few weeks prior when he leapt out of the shadows at her during one of Rickon’s many games. It had nearly caused her to fall and injure herself and the baby, and Rickon had thought it funny until she told him she was with child. Thankfully, she had not been hurt and she only saw Shaggydog from a distance ever since. Rickon moped about the castle for a while, suitably guilty for his thoughtless actions, until she had come to him to personally to assure him he was forgiven as long as he did not do it again.

 

Willem escorted her and Alys to the throne room. It was daylight; therefore, none of the torches or candles were lit, but the windows were open and cold grey light poured through to illuminate the floors and walls. Sitting in his high seat was her brother, Lord Rickon, and he was lounging lazily, laughing at something a man to his left had said. By the man’s right side was a little girl, her hair a dark cascade down her back.

 

At their entrance, Rickon glanced up with a grin and the man and little girl both turned around to look as well. The man was unfamiliar to her, and so was his daughter. His hair was peppered with grey and sheared close to his head. His close-cropped beard held the same coloring. He wore a glove on his left hand, but not his right. The little girl, when Sansa looked at her, had long black hair and bore no resemblance to the man. Her face and neck were marked with lapsed greyscale, and Sansa felt her heart go out to the poor girl.

 

Once she and Alys approached them, Sansa withdrew her arm from Alys. The man smiled and bowed in her presence, and the little girl did a shy curtsy. “Lady Sansa,” the man greeted her as he rose to face her once more. “It is an honor to meet you. I knew your father. He was a good and honorable man.”

 

“I am sorry, my lord, but I do not know your name . . . ” Sansa began, and Rickon laughed from his throne.

 

“This is Lord Davos Seaworth,” Rickon announced happily. “He came for me in Skagos. He’s a good friend, and he has come to stay with us for a while.”

 

Sansa’s face lit up with the news. While she had never met Lord Davos before, she had heard many tales about him rescuing her brother. To be honest with herself, she had wanted to meet him for a while, but Rickon never spoke of his whereabouts, only of his memories, to a point that Sansa sometimes wondered if the man had died during the war with King Stannis. It was obvious he had not, of course, but that only ignited her curiosity for more of his story.

 

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Sansa said, beaming. She turned her attention to Lord Davos and grinned at him. She bowed her head towards him as well. “My lord, it is a great honor to meet you. I must thank you for bringing my brother back to me. It was very noble of you.”

 

“No need to thank me, my lady,” Lord Davos told her. He glanced down at the little girl at his side, gently putting his hand on her shoulder. “I would like you to meet Lady Shireen Baratheon. She is eager for company and friends, and I must admit I have no girls for her to play with. While I know the two of you are not close in age, I thought maybe it would be nice—for her to have a friend.”

 

Shireen did another curtsy, and Sansa knew she must have been nervous. She felt a warm smile spread across her face, and reached out her hand for Shireen to take. “I would like that very much,” Sansa said, and Shireen slowly smiled back before gently taking hold of Sansa’s hand. Sansa felt her heart sink all of a sudden. She knew Shireen Baratheon was the daughter of King Stannis and Queen Selyse, both of whom had perished during the war. Lord Davos must have taken her in as his own daughter after that.

 

“Are you with child?” Shireen suddenly asked her, staring down at Sansa’s belly. Self-consciously, Sansa smoothed her free hand over her stomach and bit her lower lip. She nodded in answer, feeling a shy smile blossom across her face.

 

“Yes, I am with child,” Sansa told her. “My husband has gone south with my brother, Jon, and Lord Tyrion.”

 

Lord Davos smiled at her again. “My deepest apologies I did not arrive sooner for the wedding, my lady. Lord Stark was telling me all about it before you came in. I would have loved to attend it, but Shireen and I and my wife and sons have been travelling for a long time. We intend to make our home here in the North now. What with King Stannis gone and the south still at war, I thought it best for us to come here. I hope to serve your brother now as I once served King Stannis.”

 

“Then we are very lucky to have you, my lord,” Sansa answered him, smiling at Lord Davos with an honest cheerfulness in her eyes. He had to have been the first person outside of a handful to gladly show support for her match, and she could tell it was genuine.

 

“And you are lucky as well, my lady,” Lord Davos said with a twinkle in his eyes, lowering them momentarily to her belly to indicate he meant her child. “It is a great joy to be a parent. I had seven sons with my wife, and now we have one daughter.” He patted Shireen’s shoulder, and the young girl beamed up at him.

 

“Had?” Sansa asked, confused, until she realized a moment too late that they had most likely died in the war, and it was a horrible question to have asked him.

 

Lord Davos tightened his lips and slowly nodded. “Yes, my lady. I lost my four eldest in the Blackwater. My fifth eldest, Devan, perished with King Stannis in King’s Landing. My two youngest, Stannis and Steffon, are alive and well and with their mother at the moment.”

 

“I am so sorry,” Sansa told him in earnest. “Forgive me, my lord.”

 

Lord Davos shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive. We live in a harsh world, my lady. The gods take away from us, but sometimes they give and their blessings are bountiful.”

 

Sansa thought of the passageways in the manse back in Pentos, of the sunlight shining down in perfect rays through the garden, and of Sandor holding her gently in the night. _I haven’t gone anywhere, and I’m not going anywhere_ , he had said, but where was he now? Sansa sighed heavily. That wasn’t his fault, and she had to remember that before she forgot. “You are right, my lord,” she said with a smile as her arm cupped her belly and she thought of her child growing within her.

 

Turning to her brother, Lord Davos addressed him next. “Lord Stark, would you care if Lady Sansa showed me around the grounds of Winterfell?” he asked. “I must admit it would be nice to have a proper tour with such a lovely lady at my side. Perhaps Shireen could keep you company in my absence? I’m sure the two of you will get along very well.”

 

Shireen’s eyes went wide as she glanced from Lord Davos to Rickon, momentarily shocked into silence by her embarrassment. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if the little girl had a crush on her brother with the way she gazed at him, and Sansa had to hide her amusement because she didn’t wish to embarrass the girl further. Rickon seemed to take a few seconds to think about it, and Sansa was hoping he didn’t say something rude about her scarring.

 

Rickon turned to Shireen, though. “Do you like to play, my lady?” he asked her.

 

Shireen beamed at him and nodded her head happily. “Yes, my lord, I love to play. I know all sorts of games.”

 

Rickon grinned. “Great!” he announced, getting up from his chair. He hopped down to join her on the floor. “Let’s go outside,” he said, and Rickon seemed to have forgotten all about Sansa and Lord Davos. They watched as the two children hurried from the throne room, disappearing from sight.

 

Sansa looked up at Lord Davos, finding that she was still grinning. She had to shake the smile from her face, but it did not completely go away. “Forgive me, my lord, I have been unusually happy as of late,” she told him, which was oddly enough the truth. While Sandor’s lacking presence had been upsetting at first for Sansa, she was finding the time alone to be good for her. It allowed her to focus on herself, and for that, she was grateful for the time apart. She missed Sandor, but there was nothing else in her life to warrant unhappiness. She was going to be a mother soon, and she was rediscovering many things about herself. She was also learning some altogether new things. For the first time since her arrival in Winterfell, it seemed as if her life was finally looking up into a better direction, and it was a wonderful feeling for Sansa.

 

Lord Davos quirked an eyebrow at her, and then he extended his arm for her to take. “That is a strange thing to be sorry for, my lady,” Lord Davos said, and Sansa wrapped her arm around his as the two of them began to walk together. Lord Davos led them out of the throne room, and Sansa wondered where she should take him first. Winterfell was a big place, and there was so much to see. She had no idea where to even begin if he wished to be given a tour, but for now they just walked and enjoyed each other’s company. They could worry about sights later. Sansa was delighted to make a new friend.

 

“You’re right,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting upward in a small smile. “I should be happy that I am unusually happy instead of apologizing, but I fear I was raised with a certain amount of . . . courtesy, which has come back to me now that I am home.”

 

“Did you forget it while you were away?” Lord Davos asked, though it was more of a jest than a serious question, and Sansa laughed.

 

“Yes, I did,” she said, remembering all of her time in Pentos. “I was a scandal.”

 

“I find that hard to believe.”

 

Sansa lifted her eyes to him, and they glittered with amusement. “You did not know me in Pentos, my lord, but I assure you if you had been there, you would agree that my behavior was quite scandalous.” Sansa had no idea why she was telling him this, but it was vague and teasing, and it did not embarrass her to admit it anymore. Besides, Lord Davos had an air about him that was trustworthy and kind, and she believed in it immediately without question.

 

“While in Pentos, my lady,” Lord Davos said, and he leaned towards her as he lowered his voice, “do as the Pentoshi do.” When he looked at her, he winked with a smile, and Sansa found herself giggling as she placed a hand on his arm. “Your secret is safe with me,” he admitted to her. “If anybody asks, I will say, ‘You must be looking for a _different_ auburn haired beauty from Pentos . . . ’”

 

Sansa could not remember the last time she had laughed this much. Davos was wonderful company, and before she knew it, they had walked outside of the castle into the fresh cool winter air. It was refreshing to breathe it in, and while still holding onto his arm, she guided him through the slick and treacherous icy walkways towards a familiar structure that she had not visited since her arrival back home.

 

“This,” Sansa said, gesturing up at the paned glass walls, “is the Glass Garden. I haven’t been inside since I’ve come home. Would you like to see it?”

 

Davos looked upward at the rising panes, his head tilting back as his eyes followed them up, up, and up. He nodded his head. “Yes, I would,” he said. “Do you grow vegetables and herbs here?”

 

“We do,” Sansa informed him, and she took the first step forward, leading them towards the door. “There are also flowers and fruits among other things. The most well known are the blue winter roses. We grow them here in the Glass Garden. They were my father’s favorite.”

 

She stepped over the threshold, and Davos walked in after her. Their arms had separated, and Sansa walked down one of the aisles in the garden towards the center. The blue winter roses grew all over the greenhouse, but here in the center there was a special place for them as well, a towering round bush of frosty blue petals and deep green foliage. Sansa gently ran her hand along the petals of one rose, and she glanced over as Davos came up beside her to admire them.

 

“They’re beautiful,” Davos said, his voice having fallen quiet. “I’ve seen many roses in my life, but I’ve never seen a blue rose before. My wife, Marya, had a little garden she liked to tend back home. She was heartbroken when she couldn’t take it with her, but she did save some seeds. She hopes to start a new garden, but with this being the North and winter . . . ” He didn’t have to finish his sentence for Sansa to know what he meant. She understood him.

 

Very carefully, so as not to prick her fingers on the thorns, Sansa plucked one of the blue roses from the bush with its long stem still attached. As she turned back to Davos, she held the rose out to him. “Here,” Sansa said softly, “give this to your wife, and tell her she may come to the Glass Garden anytime if she wishes to grow some things. I’d be very happy to help her.” Sansa glanced up at some of the busted panels in the roof that were still in need of repair. “The garden still needs some mending. It was damaged during the sacking, but I hope to help them repair it soon in whatever ways I can. We had a garden back in Pentos that I was very fond of, and in a way, it reminded me of home. I spent a lot of time there, thinking, resting, and tending to the flowers. I want to do that here, too.”

 

When Sansa glanced over at Davos, she found him staring at her and smiling. A nervous grin spread across her face, and she felt her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. “What is it, my lord?” she asked, wondering why he was looking at her like that.

 

Davos raised his eyebrows and only shook his head. “Nothing at all, my lady,” he said, and he gently took the rose from her proffered hand, bowing his head at her in a gesture of respect. “You are the very soul of kindness, and my wife will be glad to hear it. Thank you for your generosity. It is rare these days, I have to admit.”

 

Sansa felt her smile waver. “Yes, it is,” she agreed, looking back at the blue roses. She realized, with a sudden pang of sadness, that she didn’t get the chance to show Sandor the greenhouse before he departed for the south. He would have loved the roses. She was certain of it.

 

“Was it you and your husband who had a garden back in Pentos?” Davos inquired, holding the stem of the blue rose in one hand. He glanced up at the tall centerpiece of roses as well, clearly in awe of it.

 

“Yes,” Sansa said, and she led them away from the center of the greenhouse and down one of the many aisles in the Glass Garden. “We lived in a manse with its own little garden. It was open at the top to allow in the sun, and it had a pool in the center and little streams of water connecting the plants all together. It was . . . beautiful.”

 

“You miss it,” Davos said. It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

 

“I do,” Sansa admitted quietly, her fingers reaching out to graze the violet petals of an iris flower to her left.

 

“Forgive me for asking, my lady, but what made you leave?” Davos asked her, and she could tell he was genuinely interested in hearing the answer to that, but to be honest, sometimes Sansa wasn’t sure of the answer anymore. Every time she thought about it, she dreamed of someplace warmer than Winterfell with dark blue pools and warm skies and all the brightest colors of the world bleeding together under the midday sun.

 

“My brothers, I believe,” Sansa told him. “I missed them, and I wanted to see them again.” When she turned to look at him, Davos had a pensive look on his face. He pursed his lips and walked around the table to the other side, looking at all of the plants that grew atop it.

 

“If you’ll forgive me for saying,” Davos began slowly, inspecting one of the plants upon the table instead of looking directly at her, “we all start out life with our first family. Our parents, our brothers and sisters. Cousins, aunts, and uncles. But as we get older, we get married. We have our own children. We raise them, starting a new family, and we drift away from old one. Sometimes we see them again, but most of the time we don’t. Life takes us in different directions. A brother, I think, as well as a sister, never hold a permanent place in our lives. Eventually, even our children leave us, and they start it all over again.” Davos looked up at her again, his hand lifting one of the large green leaves. “Like this leaf. It’s attached to the plant for a while, but one day it’ll fall away.”

 

Sansa was quiet for a long time. She stared at the leaf in his hand, knowing what he meant but not knowing how she should take it. “Should I have not come back, then?” she asked, looking up at Davos and wondering what the purpose was of his story.

 

“I’m not saying that,” Davos corrected himself, shaking his head. He lowered his hand from the leaf and held up the blue rose she had given him, turning it over in his hands to admire it. Davos glanced up at her then, and gave her an encouraging look along with a piece of advice. “Don’t let the first family dictate the direction of the second family,” he said plainly. “It’s your life, your child, your husband, and your choice. If you let them rule you, you won’t be happy.”

 

Sansa remained silent for a while, mulling over his words. He had a point, she thought, that she ought not to ignore. Yet there was something else picking at the back of her mind, and she voiced her opinion openly with him. “You seem to know a lot about my situation, my lord,” Sansa said, lifting her eyes to him and giving him an inquiring look.

 

Davos tried to look nonchalant, but she could tell he was not very good at it, and it made her smile. “Lord Stark might have . . . mentioned a few things,” he said, “and I might have filled between the lines on the rest.”

 

Sansa grinned at him. It was impossible for her to be angry. His words were kind, and he was only trying to help. It was nice, Sansa thought, to have a friend in a sea of so many familiar and yet alien faces, and it was amusing because she had never even met Lord Davos before. “I will take your advice into consideration, then,” she said finally, “and I thank you for it, Lord Davos. I can see why my brother is very fond of you.”

 

“And I of him,” Davos added, coming back around the table to join her side. He held out his arm once more, and Sansa gladly took it. “Now, my lady, about that tour . . . ”

 

Sansa laughed aloud, the pleasant sound filling the greenhouse with life. “Yes, come with me. There is so much in Winterfell to see.”


	17. Fire and Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve begun to add names to the chapters, so I went back and named the previous ones as well (fun clues for what to expect, eh?). I also wanted to take a moment to thank _everyone_ who has left comments and kudos! You guys are amazing! I’m still super shocked at how many people have liked this story! It’s unreal, so thank you! I hope you all enjoy it!  <3

_xvii._

 

The smoke and fumes from every lit brazier in the large hall permeated through the air along with a wave of heat so thick it grew to suffocating heights. Despite the open night sky above them, it was still warm in the southernmost regions of the Seven Kingdoms, and the fires did nothing but increase the sweltering atmosphere of the southern skies. No one could say the Queen didn’t prefer her warmth to the cold. The damn woman was a dragon herself if she could stand this abominable heat without even breaking a sweat. She looked a cool as a feather, while everyone else had stripped down to their lightest layers of clothing for comfort’s sake and still sweated their balls off.

 

Sandor stubbornly kept on every inch and scrap of fabric and armor. She could light the biggest fire she wanted to in the middle of that fucking hall, and Sandor wasn’t taking off a damned thing. If this was some trick to get them all vulnerable, he wasn’t going to fall for it like the rest of those sodding idiots. Sandor didn’t trust the woman. _The Unburnt_ , they called her. _Mother of Dragons_ , they whispered. Sandor looked at her and saw every mad Targaryen before her, burning and raping and pillaging and the death that followed after. He lost his appetite, and he didn’t eat that night.

 

After the dinner had been served and everyone else had eaten their share and the talk wandered from idle chatter into more serious matters, Sandor excused himself from the feasting table. He left the company of the high lords and ladies and stalked off to the far end of the hall with a wine cup in hand, finding an open window to lounge against where he might feel a cool breeze blow in from time to time. This mess of dragons and warfare was none of his business, and he wanted no part of it. He meant to keep his distance with those matters so they would not include him. His intentions were to return home in one piece to Sansa as he had promised her before he left, and that meant not getting involved in another war. Nobody seemed to miss his presence, though. Sandor was glad for that. Let them have their talk of war, and let him have his wine.

 

“You look like a starving man,” said a voice from the shadows. Sandor glanced up from his cup, suspiciously eyeing the man who approached him. The man was dressed in the style of the Seven Kingdoms, though it held a distinct eastern flair to it. He was big man, as big as Sandor but much wider, with dark hair receding from a balding scalp. “Why are you not at the feast?”

 

“I’ve had my fill for the day,” Sandor answered him, a hint of annoyance in his tone. He had come to this corner for peace and quiet away from the trifle of conversation, but it looked as though that wasn’t going to happen now.

 

“I must admit,” the other man said slowly, and Sandor caught the measure of disdain in his voice as he spoke, “I am surprised to see a Clegane at Her Grace’s court.”

 

Sandor laughed at that, a low, raspy laugh. “My scars are legend now, are they?” he asked the man, pushing himself off the wall with his elbow. Sandor carefully put down his cup on the windowsill, and then he raised his eyes to the stranger. “And who might you be? Seems a shame I can’t repay the greeting.”

 

“Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island,” the man answered him in his deep voice, and he stepped out of the shadows and into the light at last. Before Sandor saw the man’s face in full, he saw the burn scar that covered it—a branded tattoo of a demon mask seared into the flesh. It gave Sandor pause as he stared at it. He remembered that slaves were branded on the face in some of the Free Cities. The idea behind it was to know who and what they were without having to talk to them. Luckily, Sandor had never seen such a thing before, but there was a first time for everything. He did not like it. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit, even if it was only to himself.

 

After a moment’s pause, Sandor found his voice again. “And how does a knight of the Seven Kingdoms,” Sandor returned to him, though slowly, “become a slave before entering the service of a dragon queen?”

 

Ser Jorah’s mouth twisted into a frown. “By exile,” Jorah said.

 

“Looks like an entire lot of exiles here,” Sandor rasped. “You should fit right in.”

 

Ser Jorah stepped forward until a voice called out of the darkness, halting him. “Ser Jorah,” the voice commanded, and the knight looked over Sandor’s shoulder. His expression of ire faded to an almost reverence, and he lowered his head. The footsteps drew closer, but Sandor did not turn around to look at her. He tensed up where he stood, rooted in place. Sandor’s eyes glared at the knight, though they itched to look behind him. “My guests are weary and wish to retire for the night,” Daenerys informed Ser Jorah. “Will you so kindly escort the men to the quarters that were prepared for their stay? Summerhall is so big,” she said, almost sounding like an innocent child. “I am afraid they will become lost if they wander on their own.”

 

“Your Grace,” Ser Jorah answered her, and without a word of complaint about such a baseborn duty, he took one last look at Sandor and left them. The following silence was one of the most uncomfortable silences of Sandor’s life. He didn’t want to turn around and look at the woman, and yet he did, but she saved him the trouble of debating it as she walked around him and stood before him of her own accord. Her hands were clasped and hung low, and her eyes were dark and searching.

 

“Lord Clegane,” Daenerys addressed him, “you left the feast early.”

 

“I wasn’t hungry,” Sandor said.

 

She didn’t laugh, but there was amusement in her eyes. The fires painted them red, an unsettling color on her. Her hair being almost white caught the stain of the color as well. “It is a shame you did not stay,” she said. “I had many questions for you, but your friends answered them all on your behalf. Though I must admit I am still very curious, especially after what I heard from them.”

 

 _Great_ , he thought with a twitch of his mouth. Jon Snow and the Imp, vouching for him. It couldn’t have been good. Jon barely knew him, and Tyrion . . . well, that wasn’t exactly an amiable acquaintance over the years. “What did they say?” Sandor asked, though he was wary of the answer he might receive.

 

“Nothing awful, I assure you,” Daenerys informed him, raising her chin a little higher as she looked at him with a piercing gaze. “Your friends hold a high opinion of you, Lord Clegane, though they say you are brash and ill-tempered.”

 

“They wouldn’t be lying,” Sandor said.

 

Daenerys smiled at him, then. It was no kind and innocent smile, but neither was it cruel. Despite her age, the surety in her gaze and the way she carried herself made her look more like a queen than Cersei ever did. When she spoke, she had a way of commanding instead of asking. “Walk with me, Lord Clegane,” she said, and while he wasn’t happy about it, he did as he was bid. He had bent the knee to her, and there was no going back from that decision now.

 

They walked through the hall until the emptiness became full of people, and while Sandor recognized none of the faces, it made him a little more at ease than being alone with her. The braziers flickered and flashed with flames, and Sandor kept his distance from all of them. He noticed a group of fire jugglers at the far end of the hall, entertaining a crowd of people. Off to the right, there was a group of lithe dancers barely clothed but for the sheer linens draped over their bodies, and they swayed to the heavy beat of drums. Daenerys noticed him staring at them.

 

“They were once slaves from a pleasure house in Lys,” she told him, raising her voice over the murmur of the crowd. “I freed them, but they still like to dance in more ways than one.” She had said it as if she expected Sandor to go right up to them and ask one of them for a roll in the sheets.

 

“Fascinating,” he deadpanned, looking away from the dancing girls and turning to her. “Why did you want me to walk with you?”

 

Daenerys did not flinch from his gaze or his face like most people. She had a will of iron, and Sandor would have gone as far as to say it was stronger than his own. Daenerys narrowed her purple eyes somewhat as if she were trying to read his face, looking for some clue written on him. “You do not like me very much, do you, Lord Clegane?”

 

Sandor never expected the honesty, but now that it was out in the open, he saw no reason to deny it. “You don’t have to like someone to bend your knee to them,” he rasped, and he saw the change in her eyes as he said it. She was impressed, though he expected offense to be taken. Daenerys showed no signs of it if she did. Instead, she stepped closer until there was barely a few inches between them, and the sound of the crowd was drowned out by her words.

 

“Men such as yourself,” Daenerys said, lowering her voice, “don’t fear many things. I know your brother, Gregor Clegane, dashed my brother’s infant child, Aegon, against the wall by his head. I know he raped and butchered my brother’s wife, Elia, as bits of her baby’s skull still clung to his hands. I know your former master, Tywin Lannister, was responsible for ordering deaths of my family, and I know Jaime Lannister was the one who drove his sword straight into my father’s back as he gasped his last breath . . . ” Her eyes scanned back and forth, reading Sandor’s face for a reaction. “What was your role in all of this, Sandor Clegane?”

 

Sandor leaned forward, the ruined corner of his mouth twitching with anger. “My own,” he ground out. “You want to hang me for other men’s deeds, be my guest. I was twelve when King’s Landing was sacked and your precious family slaughtered, and I heard you had such a soft spot for the children. You want to blame somebody? Well, they’re all dead, the ones responsible. Go dig up their graves and feed their bones to your dragons if it gives you some peace, but don’t throw your dead at my door.”

 

Daenerys stood her ground without so much as a noticeable reaction. It wasn’t wise of him to talk to her this way, even he knew it, but Sandor was sick of all the blame meant for his brother and former masters being put on him as if he had swung the sword himself. Guilt by association was all it was, a stain he never thought he would be able to wipe out. Daenerys, however, seemed unaffected by his answer.

 

“The purpose of my words,” she said slowly, “is that I have more of a reason to hate you than you have to hate me, and yet I do not and you do. Tell me, why is that?”

 

Her question took him by surprise. Sandor didn’t know how to answer it. He stood in silence for some time, taking a step back from her to allow for some distance between them. His hesitation over the matter was disconcerting, even for him, but then he knew the answer. _Unburnt_ , whispered the voice in his head. _Mother of Dragons_. She was an unnatural thing, untouched by fire. The stories say she walked straight into a burning pyre and walked out alive, unharmed but for the loss of her silver hair. And her dragons . . .

 

Sandor half-expected to look up at the sky above them and see the beasts wheeling overhead, spouting flame and death onto the unsuspecting crowd below.

 

“You fear the fire,” Daenerys said at last, understanding coming into her eyes. It was as if she used some devilry on him to read his mind. “You fear my dragons, and thus me.”

 

Sandor was silent as he gritted his teeth. She was smarter than most if she could read his fear through his face. Most people were idiots and thought he was afraid of nothing, but that wasn’t the truth. Daenerys saw the truth. She had him by the balls with it, and he didn’t like it one bit.

 

“Is it your scars?” Daenerys asked, tilting her head as she gazed at his face. “They were caused by fire, and they must have brought you so much pain—”

 

Sandor growled at her, his eyes alight with fury. “Don’t _act_ like you know—”

 

“You should be proud of your scars,” Daenerys declared back at him, her eyes becoming hard like steel as she glared at Sandor. “You are a survivor. We are all helpless at some point in our lives, so was I as you were once. I was sold as if I was a slave, powerless to stop what was happening to me. You know that feeling, Sandor Clegane. I see it in your eyes. I fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. For those who were ever harmed, or held down, or forced against their will to endure that which no human being should endure. I fight for the helpless, for those who wish to be free. I am not your enemy, and I do not believe you are mine.”

 

Sandor wanted to throttle her, clenching his fists at his sides. The hum of the crowd surrounded him and filled his ears, and Daenerys stood there unfazed as if some invisible barrier stood between her and the rest of the people surrounding them. Her hair was so still, not even a breeze moved it. Had she been any other Queen, his head would be on a spike by now for how he had spoken to her. She was not like the others, though. This one was different, and grudgingly, he saw that.

 

Turning away from her, Sandor scooped up the nearest cup of wine and downed it in a few gulps. He stared back at the dancers, though his eyes were unseeing. Out of the corner of his gaze, he saw a look of amusement pass over Daenerys’s face as she picked up a cup of wine for herself as well.

 

“Do we have a truce, Lord Clegane?” she asked, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

 

After a moment of silence, Sandor finally answered her. “Yes,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought he added, “Your Grace.”

 

“Good,” Daenerys said, and this time she did smile. “I am glad for it.”

 

Sandor thought about grabbing another cup of wine and asking where the men’s quarters were so that he might get some rest tonight as well, but Daenerys did not seem so keen to give up their conversation that easily. She came around to his other side, blocking his view of the dancers, to pick up a small plum from one of the silver dishes atop the trestle table. After she took a bite of it, she looked at him with a curious gaze. Sandor knew a question was coming, and he braced himself for it.

 

“The young man with you, Jon Snow,” Daenerys began. “Who was his father?”

 

Sandor’s face creased in confusion. It was a strange question for her to ask. Most people wondered who his damn mother was, some milkmaid or whore most like. The honorable Lord Stark never spoke of it, which gave life to so many rumors surrounding the matter. “Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,” he answered. “Everyone knows that.”

 

“The Usurper’s friend,” she said.

 

“If you want to put it that way, Your Grace.” He wasn’t going to argue with her. Sandor never much liked the man, anyway. “You’re going to be surrounded by them soon enough.”

 

Daenerys laughed, then. Either she thought he was funny, or she was mad like her father. “Ser Jorah once told me the same thing. Do you know what I said to him?”

 

“What?” Sandor asked.

 

“I would burn them all,” Daenerys said, slowly turning her head to gaze at him. Sandor was unsettled by the look in her eyes. He was also aggravated and fed up with their conversation. One moment she was saying she wasn’t the enemy, and then she went and made some comment about burning everyone. Sandor tasted the bitterness in the back of his throat as he put down his wine cup and excused himself from her presence, but already Daenerys had others surrounding her to fill in his absence. He doubted she much noticed the difference.

 

Sandor asked a few people where the guest quarters were for Jon Snow and Lord Tyrion, but some of them didn’t speak the same language as him and the rest of them had no clue. His frustration grew every second until he was about to completely give up and just go outside to find a damn spot on the grass to spend the night. As he stalked away from the latest unhelpful little brat, he heard the noise of someone else clearing their throat. The sound made him halt, and he turned around to look. When he saw no one and nothing standing before him down the hallway, he heard the little noise again—a girl, clearing her throat—and it came from below him.

 

“Excuse me,” came a little voice, meek and timid.

 

Sandor looked down and saw the girl, but no, she wasn’t a little girl as he thought at first. She had similar proportions as the Imp, and her face was older than a child’s face. _Another dwarf_ , Sandor thought, and he was genuinely surprised by her presence. He was so surprised that he just stared at her in complete silence, forgetting to speak.

 

“Are you looking for Tyrion?” she asked, wringing her hands in front of her with a nervous motion. “Because I know where he is.”

 

Sandor broke out of his spell of silence. Gods, at least someone finally knew where the damn Imp was. “Yes,” he answered quickly. “Yes, I’m looking for him. Where is he?”

 

“I can take you to him if you’ll follow me,” she said, and the little woman turned around and hobbled down the hallway. Sandor followed her, though he had to slow his gait so he did not run over her. After a few twists and turns in which they passed a few people here or there, she brought him down an empty hall, quieter than all the rest, and walked up to one of the doors. She reached up her hand and knocked with three raps. “Tyrion, someone is here for you,” she called through the door.

 

There was no answer, but Sandor heard rustling inside and then the door opened, but it was not Tyrion who opened it. Jon stood there, looking a little surprised, until he saw Sandor. “Oh,” he said all of a sudden, smiling at Sandor. “Good, you’re not lost.” Jon looked down at the dwarf woman and smiled at her, too. “Thank you, Penny, for returning Lord Clegane to us.”

 

Penny returned Jon’s smile with a bashful one of her own. “You’re welcome,” she said in her soft voice, and then her eyes lit up expectantly. “Is Tyrion inside?”

 

“He’s asleep,” Jon told her quickly. “I am sorry, Penny, but I will tell him you came by.”

 

Penny nodded her head, accepting his answer with a silly little grin on her face and a glow in her eyes, and Sandor watched as she walked away until she disappeared around the corner at the end of the hallway. “Is she soft on the Imp?” he suddenly asked, turning to look at Jon.

 

Jon made a pained face as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer to that question, but he answered it anyway. “Yes, I think so,” he said quietly. “But the feeling isn’t mutual.”

 

“Is he even in the room?” Sandor asked, but he already knew the answer to that question. He knew the Imp for far too long not to predict that. The little shit was probably out drinking and whoring his way into oblivion right now.

 

Jon was quiet for a moment. “No,” he admitted, and he looked wretched about lying to the little woman. “Please, don’t tell her. Tyrion asked me to—”

 

Sandor flung up his arm and stalked past Jon into the room, shaking his head. “Bugger that, I don’t care,” he said. He could give two shits less about Tyrion’s private affairs. All he wanted was a wash basin for his face and a soft bed to sink into for the night. He walked over to one of the four beds in what was a decently sized room, though the walls of it were black and menacing. Charred, he thought, by long dead fires. No matter how many years had passed, it didn’t make it any more comforting. Sandor heard Jon shut the door as he began to remove his light armor and outer layers of garments.

 

Once he shucked it all off and was down to his tunic, boots, and breeches, his eyes searched the room for a wash basin and found one in the corner. It was clean and unused, and Sandor splashed the water on his face. It was refreshing and cool against his hot skin. When he busied himself with cleaning the sweat and dirt off of his neck and arms, he heard one of the beds squeak as Jon sat down on it. Sandor grabbed the small towel beside the basin and dried off his face and neck. When he looked over at Jon, the boy was sitting on the bed to Sandor’s left. Jon’s forearms rested upon his legs, his hands clasped together between his knees. He stared at Sandor with a pensive look upon his face.

 

“What?” Sandor snapped at the boy, terser than he meant to be, but he was aggravated after the events of tonight. He hated this place, hated the way it looked, hated the charred black walls and the sly faces of its people. He hated the Dragon Queen and her throng of fire, but only on principle if for nothing else about her, and he was ready to leave at once and go home to his wife.

 

 _Sansa_ , he thought with an air of longing in his lungs as he took a deep breath. Sandor missed her more than anything, and he wondered right now what she was doing while he wasn’t there. If wasn’t fair, being parted from her like this, but then like he told her, life wasn’t fair.

 

“Where were you?” Jon asked him, breaking through Sandor’s reverie. It was no simple question of where he had been that Jon sought, but something more. Sandor narrowed his eyes at him. Was the boy questioning him?

 

“With your _queen_ ,” Sandor said, and he threw the towel down beside the basin.

 

“Her Grace?” Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What did she want?”

 

“To look at my pretty face.” Sandor’s expression twisted into a mockery of a smile. He was trying to make a point with it. If the boy wasn’t too dumb, he’d get it. “What do you think? It wasn’t for the pleasure of my company, I’ll tell you that.”

 

Sandor crossed the room and took to one of the beds, though he had a feeling the conversation wasn’t going to end there. Out of the corner of Sandor’s eyes, he saw Jon sit up straighter. Jon rose from the bed and grabbed one of the chairs in the room. He brought the chair next to Sandor’s bed, placing it down with a clunk of its wooden legs against the carpeted stone floor, and sat in it. “What did she ask you?”

 

Sandor covered his eyes with his arm. Gods, the boy wasn’t going to leave this one alone. “She asked who your father was,” he said, choosing to leave out the rest. Sandor wasn’t in the mood to talk about those things. Besides, they were too personal.

 

“My father?” Jon asked, his voice softening with surprise. “But she knew who my father was. She knew before I left as an envoy from Winterfell. It was why I was chosen. I was the closest representative to the Lord of Winterfell without Rickon going himself. She preferred blood over a lord.”

 

That revelation made Sandor look at him. “Why ask me, then?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jon said, shaking his head. “I have no idea, but it’s not news to her.”

 

“Well, I don’t like it.”

 

“I don’t think she means harm by it,” Jon defended her, “but it doesn’t make sense.”

 

“Because she’s mad like her father,” Sandor offered, and he didn’t feel bad for the words. He kept thinking of those damn dragons, wheeling overhead above them all. He only hoped he didn’t wake up roasting in the middle of the night. The thought was enough to make him wish for a drink, but Sandor knew there was no wine in the room, and he wasn’t about to go out looking for it. He would never find his way back again. “Maybe you should ask her,” Sandor suddenly told Jon, rolling over onto his side away from Jon and closing his eyes. He wanted to get some sleep, and he hoped the boy got the message.

 

“Maybe I will,” Jon said, his quiet voice floating across the short distance between them. It made Sandor open his eyes again. He wondered what that tone was in Jon’s voice. Before he could bring himself to ask any questions, he heard Jon get up from the chair and cross the room and get into one of the beds. Sandor listened to the rustle of sheets, and then there was silence.

 

No goodnights were exchanged, and no more words were said, but Sandor wondered what the next morning would bring if Jon followed through with his words. A dark foreboding gripped his heart, and somewhere overhead, he heard the wail of a dragon.


	18. A Veritable Warfare

_xvii._

 

The soil was soft in Sansa’s hands, and she could feel its texture despite the gloves she wore up to her wrists. She smiled as she turned it over in her palms and examined it thoughtfully with her eyes, and then she bent forward and repotted the plant with care from where she knelt on the ground. When Sansa looked up, her gaze met Marya’s a few feet away. Marya grinned back at her, repotting a plant of her own. Marya’s dress and her apron were dirty with soil smears and green stains, but so was Sansa’s, and both of them had a little bit of dirt in their pinned up and disheveled hair.

 

They had been working together on the Glass Garden for a month now, repairing the damage done to the floor level and cleaning up the mess of broken glass along the paths. The two of them also spent their time taking care of the plants and flowers, repotting and watering and trimming, and they rearranged the pots, tables, and trestles. As they worked on the floor level, Davos had taken to fixing the roofing and the walls with the help of some of the other younger men. At the moment, Davos stood at the top of a ladder along the wall closest to Sansa and Marya, putting in a new glass window pane—one of many made especially for the Glass Garden.

 

As they tended to their separate tasks and talked to each other, the children were also running around and playing within the Glass Garden. They had been told numerous times to go outside to play, but Rickon said he was Lord of Winterfell and if he wanted to play inside the Glass Garden, then he was going to play inside of the Glass Garden whether they liked it or not. The other children all laughed at his exclamation, and Rickon dashed off with a grin on his face before Davos could reply to him. Steffon, Stannis, and Shireen all ran after Rickon in glee, shouting and giggling as they disappeared between the tall green foliage surrounding everyone within the garden.

 

Davos had shot a look at Marya and shrugged his shoulders, while Sansa tried not to laugh. “I tried,” Davos told her, and he went back to his task with the window panes.

 

Marya had shaken her head and simply laughed. “Boys will be boys,” she had said, raising her eyebrows, “and the girl will follow them into the seven hells and back.”

 

Sansa had seen the way Shireen looked at Rickon, and she knew that much was true.

 

As Sansa gently pressed down the soil without crushing the stem, Shireen darted right by her, giggling like mad and squealing, and nearly knocked over three newly potted plants that Sansa had just finished not too long ago. While no harm was done, Sansa was upset. She was putting a lot of hard work into the garden, and she didn’t want it all messed up because the children were being careless.

 

“Shireen, be careful!” Sansa called out, though the little girl had already vanished from sight around one of the bends of green foliage. Sansa sighed, wiping the sweat and dirt from her forehead with the back of her arm. “Oh, they’re running around like wild dogs,” Sansa said with exasperation, and a frown creased her fair features. The last thing she wanted was to have any of them ruin all of her hard work with their brash playfulness.

 

“They’re _children_ ,” Marya said knowingly, lifting her eyes up to Sansa over her pot. Marya wore a smile openly on her face. “Running around like wild dogs is their specialty. What did you expect? Needlepoint and songs?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sansa sighed, shaking her head. “I was a child once, but I wasn’t like that. My sister, Arya . . . she was the one who ran with my brothers, and they teased me mercilessly because _I_ was the one who liked needlepoint and songs.” Sansa returned Marya’s knowing look, and Marya chuckled at that.

 

“Brothers can be a source of strife,” Marya said, patting down the soil of her plant. “It sounds like your sister was more of a brother than a sister.”

 

“Be thankful they’re not _all_ boys,” Davos called down from atop his ladder. “Maybe Shireen’s soft touch will balance them out!”

 

As if on cue, Steffon burst out from the foliage. His face was caked with what looked like a thrown mud pie, and he was pouting. “Mum! Dad! Shireen threw a mud pie at me! _Look!_ ” He viciously jutted his finger at it, pointing at the evidence he had refused to wipe away just so they could see it with their own two eyes.

 

“Or not,” Davos added suddenly. He cleared his throat.

 

“Quit being a crybaby!” Rickon hollered out from somewhere unseen. Out of the blue, another mud pie flew through the air. Sansa’s eyes went wide at the sight of it, and she instinctively covered her head and ducked, but the mud pie struck Steffon on the back of his shoulder and missed all of the adults. Steffon shrieked like a little girl. “Get him, Shireen!” came Rickon’s encouraging voice from somewhere inside of the foliage surrounding them.

 

“ _ATTACK!_ ” Stannis hollered then, and all hell broke loose.

 

Mud pies flew through the air, striking everyone in the nearby vicinity. One struck Sansa right against the side of her face, and she gasped in utter shock, until another one flew and collided with her back. “Stop it!” Sansa hollered. “Stop it at _once_!” A third one flew right at her, and it hit Sansa’s hair, knocking it down from its pins. Marya was covered with three or four of them as well. Davos was lucky being on top of a ladder because by the end of it he was the only one who wasn’t completely caked in mud. He had only gotten struck by two on his way down to intervene on the situation.

 

“All right, that’s it,” Davos said, grabbing both of his boys by the shoulders. “Time to go inside and get a bath and settle down.” As he steered Steffon and Stannis back towards the castle, Sansa took one look at Rickon and glared at him.

 

“You ought to be _ashamed_ of your behavior,” Sansa told her little brother, trying to wipe the mud off of her dress and apron, but it was useless. She was already caked in it. Rickon wrinkled his nose at her, making a face. He obviously didn’t think he did anything wrong, but that was his problem. He never thought he did anything wrong.

 

“It was only a bit of fun,” Rickon said. Next to Rickon, Shireen at least had the decency to look ashamed as she bowed her head.

 

Sansa turned to Marya, wiping her hands on her apron. “I will take Shireen inside for a bath,” she offered. “If that is all right with you?”

 

Marya grinned at Sansa. “Of course, go right ahead. We are all in need of a good bath now, I think.” Marya shucked some of the mud off her shoulder, knocking it to the ground in a thick clump. Sansa tried not to think about the mud in her hair and where that mud had been or what was in it as she took Shireen by the shoulders, leading her back to the castle as Davos had done with his boys just moments before.

 

The walk back into the castle was quiet, and Sansa wondered if Shireen thought she was angry with her. Sansa had certainly been angry when the mud fight began, but now that it was over all she wanted was to take a bath, scrub herself clean, and soak in the water. She glanced down at the younger girl, whose gaze seemed permanently stuck on the floor, and felt a little smile tug at the corner of her mouth. With her arm around Shireen’s shoulders, she pulled the younger girl close to her side.

 

Shireen looked up to the see the smile on Sansa’s face, and she slowly allowed herself to smile as well. “You’re not angry with me?” Shireen asked her, and Sansa’s small smile became a full-blown grin across her face. Her suspicions had been right after all, she surmised, and Sansa hugged the girl closer to her side.

 

“Of course not,” Sansa said, and she looked down at Shireen with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “We girls must stick together. Next time, we will show those boys who is in charge. What do you say?”

 

Shireen grinned back at her. “With another mud fight?” she asked hopefully.

 

Sansa bit her lower lip. “No mud next time,” she said. “Something . . . cleaner.”

 

“But it’s not fun if it’s not _dirty_.”

 

Sansa bit down on her lip even harder. She was not going to laugh at that. Blessed Mother, what had happened to her that she would hear such an innocent thing and think such inappropriate thoughts? Sansa sighed and shook her head at herself because, of course, she knew. She was not a little girl anymore like Shireen. She had lost her innocence a long time ago halfway across the world in another city where the sun shone bright and the wind blew strong. Winterfell was greyer, darker, and stiller.

 

She would have remained a statue here, Sansa sometimes thought, if she had never left her home at a young age and struck out into the world. It had not been a tale from one of her songs, but she had also learned the importance of sensibility, kindness, and compassion along the way that she might never have learned in Winterfell. It took trials and hardships to change a person, and Sansa’s whole world had been redefined in ways that her younger self never would have been able to imagine.

 

When they reached the washroom, Sansa called for the maids to bring hot water. She picked out what mud she could from Shireen’s hair and her own hair. The tub was big enough for two, and Sansa was not shy around another girl, especially one so young, and so they agreed to take a bath together in the big washtub as soon as the water was brought back to them. As they waited, Sansa tried to gently remove the tangles from Shireen’s hair with her fingers, and they chatted idly about whatever popped into Shireen’s mind.

 

The maids returned some time later and filled the bath with steaming hot water, and Sansa helped Shireen out of her gown. The girl immediately splashed into the tub, and Sansa untied her apron and put it aside. She carefully shrugged out of her gown as well, and she needed the help of the maids to get into the tub. Sansa sunk down into the water with care, enjoying the warmth and the steam. It felt wonderful after all of that mud. Shireen tried not to look to give Sansa some privacy, but she saw Sansa’s belly and she couldn’t stop herself from asking questions.

 

“Does it hurt?” Shireen asked her, her voice a little quiet as she was unsure about how Sansa might receive it. “Having a baby in you? It looks like it might hurt . . . ”

 

“What do you say that?” Sansa asked, tilting her head curiously.

 

“Because . . . ” Shireen struggled to find the right word. “It looks stretched, like something too big in something too small. Doesn’t that hurt?”

 

Sansa felt herself smiling, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t,” she said. “It feels quite good, actually. I feel kicks from time to time. It doesn’t hurt until you give birth—at least that’s what I have been told,” Sansa added, but she was sure it was true. She somewhat remembered her lady mother being pregnant with Rickon, even though she was so young when he was born. Catelyn had always been fine until it came time to give birth. Sansa felt nervous, suddenly remembering the screams that echoed from her mother’s chambers. Sansa had thought her lady mother was dying, and she cried until it was explained to her everything was okay, but she had thought for the longest time she never wanted that to be her.

 

Shireen suddenly smiled across the water at her. “Have you thought up any names for the baby?” she asked, picking up a bar of soap and beginning to scrub with it.

 

Sansa was caught off guard with that. With everything going on regarding her marriage to Sandor, they never sat down and talked of names. It worried Sansa that their child might be born without Sandor there, and now she might have to name the child without him. Though part of her was sure Sandor would not care what names she chose and would care only for the baby, Sansa wanted him to have a say.

 

“I haven’t,” Sansa said in a quiet voice. “We’ve been so busy since I have arrived home, and I haven’t had time to think about it.”

 

“Well, you have to think about it,” Shireen said matter-of-factly. “When the baby’s born, she has to have a name—or he, if it’s a boy. I think Shiera if you have a girl, and Edric if you have a boy.”

 

“Why those names?” Sansa asked, amused by her choices.

 

“I like them,” Shireen said simply, shrugging her shoulders. “I had a friend named Edric, and Shiera is a pretty name. I read about her in one of my father’s books. She was the daughter of Aegon IV, and they say she was a great sorceress and very beautiful.”

 

Picking up her own soap, Sansa carefully began to wash her hair. It was matted and tangled, and she tried to comb out the tangles with gentle rakes of her fingers. “Those are nice names,” she said. “I will think about them.” In truth, Sansa wished to pick a name on her own, but she didn’t want to hurt Shireen’s feelings. When they were all scrubbed down and washed up, they left the tub and tugged on robes. Sansa took a smaller towel and helped Shireen dry her hair, and then she rubbed her own tresses with it.

 

Once they left the washroom, Sansa led Shireen down the hallway to her personal chambers in the castle. It was her old room from when she was a child, though the decorations were somewhat different now. Sansa had asked for the room to be rearranged with a few things changed here or there, but she still recognized the comfortable memory of it in the back of her mind. It was almost like looking at an old quilt with new patches sewn onto it. Though it appeared different, it was still very much the same as it had always been.

 

Sansa closed the door behind herself and Shireen, guiding the younger girl to her vanity and sitting her down in the chair before it. Shireen gazed at her reflection in the mirror, and upon seeing her scars, reached up to touch them with a frown upon her face. She looked up at Sansa’s reflection behind her in the mirror, and Sansa wondered at the sadness in Shireen’s eyes. It was not a secret for long, though.

 

“I wish I were beautiful like you,” Shireen said sadly, casting her gaze down at the top of the vanity. “You’re beautiful, and you’re married. I don’t think any man will marry me when I’m older.”

 

Sansa’s heart ached for the girl, but at the same time, she felt a soft smile come to her lips as she picked up a brush and began to tend to Shireen’s hair with gentle strokes. “You say that now,” Sansa told her in a soft voice, “but you _are_ beautiful, and in every way that counts. Some lucky man will marry you one day, and he will cherish you just the way you are, scars and beauty and all.” As she pulled the bristles of the brush through Shireen’s hair, she thought of something else. “My husband has scars, you know,” Sansa revealed to the younger girl, and that made Shireen look up.

 

“Does he?” Shireen asked, her voice hushed but inquisitive, as if they were exchanging secrets in the night like a pair of giggling girls.

 

Sansa smiled at that. “Yes, he does,” she answered her. Sansa paused from brushing Shireen’s hair, putting the brush aside on the top of the vanity, and then she brought her hand to the left side of the younger girl’s face. Gently, Sansa stroked the back of her fingers against Shireen’s cheek. “The whole left side of his face is scarred from fire, and it scares many people the first time they see it. It even scared me.”

 

Shireen’s eyes went wide. “Then, why did you marry him, if he’s scary like that?”

 

Sansa could not help the small laugh that came forth from her lips. “Because he’s not scary,” Sansa said, shaking her head at such an absurd notion. She ran her fingers through Shireen’s soft black hair. “Scary is not scars. It is here.” Sansa placed her other hand above Shireen’s heart. “It is a darkness in one’s heart when there is no good left in them. It is not looks or appearances. It is not your ears, your hair, your nose, or your skin. Sandor is gentle, though he doesn’t like people to know it, and he’s generous and loyal and true and good. I married him because I love him, and because he is a better man than any pretty prince I have ever met.” When Sansa realized there were tears in her eyes, she quickly wiped them away and smiled for Shireen. “So, you see,” Sansa finished, “one day someone will feel that way about you as well, and you will feel silly for ever saying you are not beautiful.”

 

Shireen returned Sansa’s smile through the mirror, and she turned around in the chair to look up at Sansa. “I wish I could meet him,” Shireen said in a sheepish manner. “He sounds wonderful.”

 

“You will meet him,” Sansa assured the younger girl, tucking a piece of Shireen’s hair behind her ear. “As soon as he comes back with Jon, you will meet him, I promise.”

 

“Do you think he will like me?”

 

Sansa grinned at her. “Of course he will.”

 

Shireen beamed up at Sansa before she turned back around in the chair. Sansa picked up the brush again and resumed brushing Shireen’s hair once more. Shireen fidgeted in her seat like there was something on her mind, and then she blurted out, “How did you know when Sandor liked you back?”

 

Sansa’s hand froze halfway through Shireen’s hair. No one had ever asked her such a question before, and Sansa couldn’t remember the exact moment she became convinced Sandor felt something for her. Sandor had confused her so much in the beginning. One moment she had thought he wanted her, and then in another it seemed like he had no interest whatsoever, and sometimes she had even thought he was repelled by idea with the way he reacted towards her.

 

“I don’t know,” Sansa answered honestly. “I think I just . . . knew. I know that’s not much of an answer, but things were very complicated between Sandor and me for quite some time.”

 

“Did you fight a lot?” Shireen asked next.

 

“Sometimes,” Sansa told her, “but not all the time.”

 

“Davos and Marya fight,” Shireen revealed, “but mostly Marya fights Davos. My father and mother fought, too. Davos said if two people don’t fight, then they don’t love each other enough to care.”

 

Sansa supposed that was true in some cases, but definitely not in all of them. However, she thought it was very true in her and Sandor’s case. It seemed every fight they had had in the past revolved around one of them being hurt because of the other over some misunderstanding. “I think that’s true,” Sansa said out loud. “Why fight about anything unless it bothered you, and if it bothers you, then that means some part of you cares.”

 

Shireen turned back around in the chair to face Sansa again. She had a thoughtful look on her face like she was trying to ponder something over in her head. “Who said something first, so that you knew you liked each other and it wasn’t a secret anymore? You or Sandor?”

 

Sansa gave pause again, and then she found she was laughing at the question. She loved talking with Shireen, and she thought of no reason why she shouldn’t answer. “I think it was me,” Sansa said in all honesty, and then she bent forward until she was at eye level with Shireen. There was a twinkle in her eyes at her next words. “Sandor was too scared, but don’t tell him I told you that.” Sansa touched the tip of Shireen’s nose with her finger as she grinned at her. “It’s a secret between you and me, hmm?”

 

A silly grin spread across Shireen’s face. “I love secrets!” she exclaimed, but her expression became serious quite soon after that. “Can I tell you a secret?” she whispered at Sansa, her fingers gripping on the back of the chair.

 

“You can tell me anything,” Sansa whispered back, “and I won’t tell a soul.”

 

Shireen fought over whatever it was in her head before blurting it all out at once. “I like Rickon, but I don’t know if he likes me back.” Her face blushed pink at her admission, and she leaned closer to Sansa as if she was afraid someone might hear them, even though they were alone in the room and the door was closed. “He plays with me all the time, and he’s really nice, but how do I know if he likes me back?”

 

Sansa had known it for a while, even if Shireen had only just said something about it out loud. It was written all over the girl’s face whenever she was with Rickon or around him. Sansa didn’t know if anyone else had caught on, but she surely had noticed it herself. Still, she acted surprised for the girl’s sake. Her eyes went wide as a smile took over her mouth. “Do you?” Sansa asked her in a low voice. “I could find out for you if you want me to,” she offered.

 

Shireen quickly shook her head. “No, no, no, don’t tell him! I’ll be so embarrassed if you tell him!”

 

“I won’t tell him,” Sansa assured her. “I promise, but I’m his sister and I’m really good at asking questions and getting him to admit things, so I could do that for you, if you’d like?”

 

Shireen had to think about it for a moment. She bit on her bottom lip, uncertainty and apprehension blooming behind her eyes in a tug of war, and she swallowed past a catch in her throat. “Okay,” she agreed quietly, nodding her head.

 

Sansa smiled and ran her hand over Shireen’s hair in a loving gesture, and she bent over to kiss the top of the girl’s head. “I will ask him whenever I get a good chance to question him,” Sansa told her, “and he won’t hear about you liking him from my lips. We’ll find out if he likes you back first.”

 

In a sudden movement that Sansa wasn’t expecting, Shireen jumped forward and threw her arms around Sansa’s neck in a hug. “Oh, thank you! You’re such a wonderful friend!”

 

Sansa wrapped her arm around Shireen and hugged her back. She felt tears come unbidden into her eyes. If today had taught her anything, it had taught her what was in store for her as a mother and what it took to be one, whether she had a boy or a girl, one child or seven. She felt perhaps at last that she was ready to face that new stage of her life, even though some part of her was still scared to death of it as well.

 

She was bringing a child into this world during the heart of winter, but she thought as long as she had her husband, her family, and her friends at her side, everything would be fine. _Everything will be fine_ , she told herself, but there was a fear in her heart that she could not identify. She pulled Shireen closer and pushed it from her mind. _Everything will be fine_ , she repeated to herself, closing her eyes.


	19. The Trappings of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I posted this chapter, I noticed I've had a surge of readership during this story's hiatus. I'm not sure what's caused it, but welcome everybody! I wanted to say that I do have a set end for this fic, so hopefully we will get to that one day. This isn't going to be a dramatically long story, so at the max, there might be fifteen to twenty more chapters, and it'll be complete. I think! Sometimes you can never tell with these things, so we'll see. ;-)

_xix._

 

He was a wolf in his dreams again, prowling along the snow drifts of a deep forest blanketed wholly in white and grey. The wrinkled skins of blackened bark appeared beneath layers of ice and snow frozen upon the tree trunks. Sniffing the ground for a familiar scent, each paw sank into the soft white tufts along the forest floor. The scent was getting closer to him, and his nose went into a frenzy to find the trail. Quickly, he bounded through the trees until the scent was overwhelming, blood pumping through every vein.

 

His feet skidded to a halt in the snow, coming upon the vast white trunk of a weirwood tree. The bark of its body was as white as the snow that had fallen upon its many branches and about its roots, but the leaves were blood red and its face was bleeding, too. The eyes wept red sap, and the mouth dribbled it at each corner and cut made into the bark. Its face looked to be in agony, screaming out in pain from its carved wounds. Lying about its feet were no bodies or remains, but the stain of blood was everywhere. The snow was drenched in red, puddles here and there. Some were small, some large. He slowly approached them, sniffing in interest at the freshness of the blood, and his hunger was spiked—but there was also fear as each hair of his coat stood up on end.

 

His head lifted up quickly, ears pricked to all of the sounds around him. A distant voice was calling out to him, calling his name. “ _Jon_ ,” it said. “ _Jon, you must listen_. _Jon, look. Look for me._ ” He was trying to find the voice, looking for a body, the boy who was calling out to him. He knew that voice, trusted in that voice. It was his brother, part of his pack, and though they were scattered now, he had always known they would find each other again. Happiness, he felt, at hearing that familiar voice again after being separated from it for so long.

 

“ _Jon, open your eyes. Jon, you must look. Jon_ ,” it said, louder this time, “look _at me_.”

 

His head whipped towards the weirwood tree, whose carved face was no longer still and lifeless, but moving and dreadful to behold. It was his brother, Bran’s face, looking back at him, bleeding through his eyes, his mouth, in agony, calling out to him. Bran’s face twisted with the effort to speak, the weirwood’s white bark wrinkling with each move of his lips and eyes.

 

“ _You must see, Jon_ ,” Bran said. “ _It’s important that you see_.”

 

“ _What must I see?_ ” Jon asked him, though no words came out of his mouth.

 

“ _What I see_ ,” Bran told him. “ _I will show you, but you must let_ _me_.”

 

“ _How do I let you?_ ” Jon asked, confused but wanting to understand. He stood stock still, staring at the weirwood.

 

“ _Close your eyes_ ,” Bran said, “ _and I will show you_.”

 

He obeyed, shutting his eyes against the sight of the bleeding weirwood tree that was his brother, and darkness became his vision. For how long, he was not sure. The wolf faded from him, and Jon found himself as if in a real dream within his mind instead of a foggy reality halfway beyond the world. He _became_ the tree, but not the same tree as his brother—a different tree, tall and sturdy, built to withstand the rushing pass of time and the cruel axes of men. He stood like a tower, and before his feet, a kneeled man in supplication. The man’s dark head was bowed, his garments grey and black. Even though his head was bent and his face not visible to Jon, there was something intensely familiar about him.

 

“I have forsook my honor,” the man began to say, and Jon knew his voice. It was his father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, alive and well. Jon’s heart rejoiced until the words from Lord Eddard’s mouth froze him to his core more than any snow beyond the Wall. “For the love I bear for my sister, Lyanna, I have lied to my wife. I fear she will never forgive me for what I have done. I must beg pardon for my offense upon her. The boy is not safe without the lie. Robert will kill him if he ever finds out the truth, and he is my blood. He is not my son, but he is my blood. May they grow together as brothers, and love one another as brothers . . . ”

 

The voice began to fade away from Jon, and though he called out to his father, Lord Eddard could not hear his cries. He was afraid of what his father meant, and the weight of the words was heavy on his heart. Jon raised his voice once more, but the sight before him of his father was gone. No longer was he the tree his brother Bran had made him to help him see. The world had fallen into darkness, and Jon could feel the deathly cold creeping up into his lungs. It froze him like the depth of winter, and he felt as though he were dead.

 

The darkness, however, abated as a ring of fire surrounded him on all sides. Jon stood on his own two feet again, but he panicked amidst the fire. It brought heat and life and breath back into his lungs, back into the world, but he was scared of it. It would burn him if he got too close. It would consume him into ashes and dust, and then nothing, not even a cold, dead body, would remain of him. The fire would consume him, and all would be lost.

 

Beyond the ring of towering flames, a dark figure appeared to be walking towards him. Jon could not make out its face, but he could see its shape as it drew ever closer to him. Its body was that of a woman, naked without cloth to cover her, and her head was bare without a single strand of hair. _Ygritte?_ Jon thought at first, but she was not thin and bony as Ygritte had been while she was alive. This woman was shapely and supple, and she wove her way through the fire without fear in her steps.

 

If her hair had not been burnt away, it would have been silvery blond. Her body remained miraculously unburnt as she passed through the fire, and she held out her hand as if she meant for him to take it. Jon reached out for her, but she was too far away and he could not move. She drew closer with each movement of her feet, her arm ever outstretched as if to beckon him to join her. Though she was naked and hairless, Jon knew her face. She walked until they were face to face with the roaring flames surrounding them, closing in on them, and Jon realized he was naked, too. The fire would burn him. It would burn him, and he would not survive it. _Not like her, the Unburnt_ , his mind whispered.

 

“Do not fear the fire,” Daenerys told him, reading his thoughts. A knowing smile crossed over her lips. “Fire cannot kill a dragon.”

 

“I am not a dragon,” Jon said. “I am Jon Snow, son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell.”

 

“You are no Stark,” she said, and her voice seemed to change. For a moment, Jon thought, it became Bran’s voice. “You are Targaryen, blood of the dragon. The fire is in your veins as it is in mine.”

 

“I am not a Targaryen,” he argued. “I am Jon Snow—”

 

“Fire speaks to fire,” Daenerys announced, her voice rising above his own, and she closed the space between them to lay a kiss upon his lips. It did not burn, but it tasted of fire. The flames surrounding their unclothed bodies closed in upon them, drenching Jon and Daenerys in a torrent of bright waves of light. He pulled back and screamed, afraid of the fire burning him—

 

Suddenly, Jon shot upright in his bed. He was sweating all over. His night shirt was drenched with it. His uncut dark hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks, damp and uncomfortable. Jon shucked his covers aside to leave the bed, approaching the basin of fresh water in the room. He splashed his face, wiped it back onto his hair, and lifted his head to stare forward into nothingness. His dream had frightened him, but he felt its importance somewhere deep in his blood. It almost felt like it was singing out to answer something.

 

Jon looked down at his hands, turning them over to inspect them closely. There was nothing different about them, and then he pushed up the sleeves of his night shirt. There was nothing different about his arms either. Annoyed with himself, he shucked off his sweaty shirt to replace it with another one, and then he pulled on a pair of trousers and boots. It was cool outside at night, but it was not cold. Out here in the southern lands of the Seven Kingdoms, he had heard the nights were hardly ever cold.

 

Still, it would be easier to cool off outside than in here, so Jon went for a walk. Summerhall was large and mostly decrepit, but he felt he knew the way through it by now. The hallways in use were lit with rows of torches, and he navigated himself to the main hall with its collapsed roof. The rubble had been long cleared away, but the night sky was visible overhead and the main hall had been the center of merriment each evening here. Jon passed out of the main hall through the front entrance where they had greeted Queen Daenerys upon their arrival, and then he leaned against the wall outside and crossed his arms over his chest.

 

The night sky above was smattered with stars poking through the dark purple veil. It was not quite black, nor blue, but an odd coloring of purple during the nights here. Jon wasn’t sure why. He had spent all of his life up in the North, save for less than a handful of journeys he had made south for his brother, Lord Rickon. He knew very little about the southern kingdoms aside from the things he had been taught as a youth, and they had never covered the coloring of the night sky down south.

 

Amidst his thoughts, Jon heard heavy footsteps echoing throughout the main hall. He turned to look at the open entryway, but he remained in his spot against the wall and waited to see if a figure would appear. It was not long before the towering frame of Sandor Clegane stepped through the entryway, and the man stopped, slowly turning his head to see Jon leaning against the outside wall.

 

Jon knew without having to ask that Lord Clegane had followed him out here. Clegane said nothing, but he turned his head forward again and stared out at the darkness of the camp before them. The lands surrounding Summerhall were packed to the brim with people belonging to Queen Daenerys, and tonight they were mostly deep in slumber at this particular hour, heedless of the two men watching them sleep in their tents and upon their pallets. Torches and lanterns dotted the landscape, some of them hanging from erected wooden poles.

 

Lord Clegane crossed his arms like Jon, and then he leaned upon the wall as well.

 

“Couldn’t sleep, Lord Clegane?” Jon asked him, trying to start a friendly conversation.

 

“You woke me,” Clegane replied in his gruff voice.

 

“My apologies,” Jon said. “I was having dreams.”

 

“Some dreams those must have been,” Clegane rasped, and there was a note of irritation in Clegane’s voice.

 

“Yes,” Jon answered him, his soft tone despite Clegane’s annoyance. “Dreams of being more than a bastard,” he recalled, sounding sad at the memory of it, “and of a fire consuming me whole.”

 

Lord Clegane had gone silent at the mention of fire, and though he spoke not another word after Jon’s admission, Jon could feel the tension thrumming off of the other man’s rigid frame. He decided to change the subject. Jon did not want to talk about his dreams right now.

 

“Tell me,” Jon began, his curiosity getting the better of him at last, “how did you and Sansa become close with one another?” Lord Clegane remained quiet, though, and Jon knew the man didn’t want to answer him. He probably thought of it as a private matter and did not wish to discuss it with anyone else, let alone Sansa’s brother of all people. “There is nothing you can say that will shock me,” Jon promised. He looked over at Lord Clegane and tried to offer a smile. “The two of you are husband and wife now, and she is carrying your child. In any case, I do not ask for intimate details.” Jon looked forward again, staring out at the tents ahead of them. His brow furrowed in thought. “I merely wonder . . . ” he said, but his voice trailed off, and he didn’t finish his sentence.

 

In the long stretch of silence that followed, Jon expected he would not get an answer out of Lord Clegane regarding that topic. The man was very tight-lipped when it came to Sansa. However, after some time, his raspy voice spoke up and broke through the silence.

 

“I wanted her for years,” Clegane said. “Is that what you want to hear?” His tone was mocking as he spoke to Jon. “I wanted her in King’s Landing. I tried to take her away, but she wouldn’t come. I left her there, and I fled. I came for her again because . . . ”

 

“You cared for her,” Jon added softly. “It is good she had someone who did.”

 

“Good?” Clegane snorted at the idea. “It’s good I wanted to steal away with your little sister?”

 

“But you didn’t,” Jon said, looking over at Clegane this time. “You gave her a choice unlike everyone else around her.”

 

“Some choice,” Clegane sneered.

 

“Why are you so hard on yourself?” Jon asked all of a sudden, genuinely confused by Clegane’s reaction, and he turned around to face Lord Clegane in full. “She fell in love with you, Lord Clegane. If you were dishonorable with her, that would not have happened. You wanted her. Does that matter? You didn’t take her, and you didn’t force her. You have treated her with respect and kindness since then, and she came to love you for it. Is that so hard to accept? Whatever you may believe, there is no dishonor in that.”

 

Lord Clegane did not meet Jon’s gaze, but his scowl was visible in the dim torchlight outside the walls. “My face is not such a pretty thing to look at,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy. “Half of it is ruined.”

 

“Sansa used to care about things like that when she was just a girl,” Jon replied softly, "but even I can see that she has changed since those days. She has learned it is what is inside that matters, not what is outside. Will you hold her childhood against her? Does she hold your past against you?”

 

Lord Clegane’s silence seemed to be all the answer Jon needed to hear, but slowly, the man answered, “No.”

 

“Then, do not judge her,” Jon advised him with kindness in his tone. “Allow her to love you, or one day you will push her away, and you will have nothing left but an unhappy marriage borne out of continued necessity and not love. I do not think either of you want that with each other.”

 

Again, there was quiet between them, but Clegane did not make a move to return to their rooms for the night. He just stood there in silence beside Jon, and Jon looked out at the crowded plain before his vision. He hoped Lord Clegane took his words to heart, but something told him that Clegane’s silence was a good thing, not a bad thing. The man somehow seemed more relaxed than he had been before.

 

However, Jon remembered his dream once more as they stood there outside of ruins of Summerhall, and he felt the foreboding fire creeping near despite the darkness. It awoke a fear in him, though some part of him knew he should not be afraid of the fire.

 

“You should return back to Winterfell,” Jon said suddenly, and it brought Clegane’s attention back to him in an abrupt manner.

 

“What for?” Clegane asked. “I thought we were to leave together.”

 

“You must go back now,” Jon told him, glancing at Clegane. “I fear it is no longer safe for any of us, and my place is here. Lord Tyrion’s place is here. Your place is by my sister’s side. You must take care of her, and you must take care of the child when it is born. Go home now, and do not partake any further in this war. Pack your belongings tonight, and leave at first light with our retainers on the road back to Winterfell.”

 

There was an urgency behind his words, though even Jon was not sure of the reasoning behind them. He was afraid of something. Something was coming. He knew it. He felt it in his bones, and he did not want Lord Clegane to be a part of it. Jon had no wife and no child on the way, and neither did Lord Tyrion, but Lord Clegane had Jon’s sister, Lady Sansa, waiting in Winterfell for him with a baby on the way. It would be a cruel fate to leave her to her own devices after everything their family had suffered due to this war. There were only three of them left now, and Jon did not truly count as one of them. He was a Snow, a bastard. He was no Stark.

 

“What do you plan on doing here?” Clegane asked him, but Jon shook his head at the question.

 

“I have my part to play,” Jon said softly, “as do you, and your part is to protect Lord Rickon and Lady Sansa.”

 

“You have not answered my question,” Clegane said, sounding suspicious of whatever might have been going on, but there was nothing to tell. Jon only had his dreams, and the only thing he could think to do was to speak with Queen Daenerys in private.

 

“I do not know,” Jon answered him in all honesty. “I have much to figure out, and very little time to do it. Promise me you will leave tomorrow at first light.”

 

Lord Clegane was silent at first. “I will stay one more day,” he said. “Then, I’ll leave. First light on the second day.”

 

Jon nodded his head. “Good,” he replied, and then he turned to Lord Clegane to give a tight smile. “I think I should try to get some more rest. I believe tomorrow will be a very busy day.”

 

There was no vocal reply from Lord Clegane, but he nodded his head once curtly at Jon, and Jon walked back into the main hall. Lord Clegane did not follow him this time, choosing instead to spend some time alone by the entrance outside. The hallways were empty and quiet on the walk back to their temporary chambers, and when Jon made it back inside their room, Lord Tyrion was snoring away in his bed with his arm hanging over the edge of it.

 

Jon removed his boots and trousers, returned to bed, and dreamed again of the fire.


	20. Mummer’s Farce

_xx._

 

The fires rose high into the night sky with vivid arms of flame, soaring towards the stars like crackling whips. Sandor drank deeply from his cup and kept his distance from the blazing braziers, though despite his purposeful distance, he could still feel the scorching heat through his tunic and breeches. Tonight he had forgone his armor in lieu of simpler clothes like the rest of his party. The Dragon Queen kept her visitors and her companions heated up like loaves in a buggering oven as if she meant to cook them all, an unpleasant and bothersome thought that often crept into Sandor’s mind whenever he had to attend these nights in her hall.

 

Tomorrow morning, he would be leaving on the road back to Winterfell to return to Sansa. It would take months to travel the distance, and Sandor knew by the time he arrived the babe would already be born. The more frightening thought, however, was only if everything went well with the childbirth. Though Sandor had never had children before, he knew the process of childbirth was long and painful and sometimes ended in death for both mother and babe if something was not right. Occasionally, maesters could save the babe, but the mother was a more complicated matter. If she bled too much, her life was often forfeit.

 

Sandor’s teeth ground together painfully whenever he thought on such matters, and he tried to quickly push them from his mind whenever they cropped up. Sansa was in good hands in Winterfell. If something were wrong, a raven would have been sent to deliver the news to Sandor, to Jon, or to both of them. Sandor had seen no ravens, though, and he had heard no messages of ill foreboding. Everything was quiet. Too quiet, he sometimes thought to himself. Nonetheless, no news was better than ill news.

 

The babe would likely be born while he was traveling on the road. It pained him to know he would not be there during the birth. Sandor had never expected in all his life to ever become a father. On top of that, he had never expected to ever be made a lord. It was a thought he had entertained once as a reward for returning Arya Stark to her brother, the King in the North. Sandor never knew if he had ever believed in the thought despite having it, but those wishes had never come true either way. The gods, if they existed at all, had laughed at him for it. The idea, as soon as he had had it, was ripped away by the Red Wedding.

 

Yet, as a strange twist of fate, Sandor had received a lordship for returning a Stark girl. A different one, of course, but a Stark all the same, and a different lord had granted him the title as a reward. Fortune had found it fit to trade Arya for Sansa, Robb for Rickon, and Sandor had become a lord over his own castle. He did not know if he would ever grow used to it. Sandor had been a dog his whole life, but now he could command others to do his bidding instead of having someone else command him. Despite that, Sandor still did his own work. He tied his own laces, saddled his own horse. He cleaned his own weapons, and he fetched his own things.

 

He might have been a lord in title, but he was no lord in the traditional sense. Bugger all if he would become some lazy nobleman with a stick up his arse. Sandor would continue to take care of his own duties as he had always done, and it wouldn’t change because he had a title in front of his name.

 

As the crowd of loyal Targaryen supporters cheered on around him, feasting on wine and merriment and dancing and shows, Sandor continued to drink from his cup. When he ran out of wine, he sought out more, and then he took to a darkened corner far away from most of the people. Sandor leaned his shoulder against a thick carved pillar and drained more of his wine. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces that had traveled down south with him. He could not remember the faces of the retainers. None of them were known to him, nor were they important enough for him to bother bearing in mind.

 

Sandor recognized nobody until his eyes settled on the figure of Sansa’s brother, who was standing beside one of the towering braziers of fire next to another figure. Jon was holding a cup of wine in one hand, laughing in such a way as Sandor had never seen within the short time he had known the boy. Sandor’s eyes glanced to the right to take in Jon’s conversational companion. He would not mistake her silvery blonde hair for anyone else. The woman was instinctively noticeable from all others by the way she carried herself. She, too, laughed as though she was in an immense state of happiness.

 

The two of them drifted closer together as they laughed with one another. Sandor was no fool either. Jon and his Dragon Queen were too close for a queen and her subject, and Sandor scowled at their open display before a large crowd of people. Clearly, neither one of them had ever heard of discretion before.

 

However, the real shock came when they drifted even closer together. Slowly, they stopped laughing, and then they kissed each other.

 

“Well, isn’t _that_ interesting,” said a familiar voice beside him.

 

Sandor immediately looked down at his side, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. After all, he knew to look down because he knew that voice. It belong to the little lord, Tyrion, who was also holding a cup of wine in one hand as he gazed forward at the pair across the hall.

 

“Do you just skulk around everywhere, is that it?” Sandor asked the little lord, his irritation obvious in his tone.

 

“I prefer the term ‘linger,’” Tyrion responded, correcting him. “Skulking implies that I am unhappy, which I am most definitely not.”

 

“Are you telling me you aren’t unhappy at the lost prospect of sticking your cock in that?” Sandor asked as he looked down at Tyrion, and he gestured with his head towards the Dragon Queen across the open hall as she mingled with Jon Snow—if what they were doing could be called mingling.

 

“Well, I can’t deny I’m not jealous, but,” Tyrion paused, and he sounded pained at admitting the next part, “ _good_ for him.”

 

Sandor shook his head, looking away from Tyrion. “You had no chance, little lord.”

 

“You don’t know how persuasive I can be,” Tyrion said.

 

Sandor snorted in reply. “Go persuade her, then. That’s a sight I’d like to see.”

 

Tyrion sighed. “I fear I have lost my chance,” he said, and then he downed the rest of his cup of wine. “But I see a _fine_ young lady over there, and I must make my presence known to her. If you’ll excuse me, Lord Clegane,” Tyrion added, and he bowed his head politely before he waddled off into the crowd towards the lady in question. It was one of those dancers from the pleasure houses of Lys, if Sandor remembered correctly. If Tyrion was lucky, he might have a shot with that one.

 

When Sandor looked back to see what Jon and the Targaryen Queen were up to now, he noticed they were gone from their spot. Sandor’s eyes searched the crowd for Jon, wondering why he felt the need to seek out the boy. Something told him he ought to keep an eye on him. After Jon had told him last night of his dreams of being consumed by fire, Sandor had been on edge. Nothing good came of dreams of fire, and Sandor had an ill feeling about it all night and all day.

 

He spotted Jon and the boy’s queen standing up on a raised platform. It was higher than anything in the room, though its purpose was unknown to Sandor. However, set in front of the platform were three blazing braziers of immense size. There was one on the left end, one on the right end, and one in the middle. Jon and his queen stood on the platform before the one in the middle, and it seemed as though they were talking very serious about something. Jon had a pained expression on his face, and the Dragon Queen looked at though she was asking him to do something. She looked at the brazier, her violet eyes glowing with the great wisps of fire as they rose upward in a dance, and her lips seemed to curve into a small smile as her eyes gleamed bright from the flames.

 

Jon looked at the fire, uncertainty and fear upon his face, and he shook his head.

 

Something was wrong, and Sandor could sense it. Throwing aside his empty wine cup, he stormed his way through the crowd towards them. The queen was urging Jon forward, trying to get him to touch the flames, and that was when Sandor hurried through the throng of bodies, shoving at people as he went to make it there in time.

 

She meant to kill the boy or sacrifice him, Sandor was sure of it.

 

Sandor rushed onto the platform from the steps. He meant to seize the boy first, if he could, to stop it, and he made it just in time. Jon’s arm was stretched out, reaching for the fire, when Sandor grabbed Jon and snatched him away from the flames, pulling the boy close and drawing his sword. He held his weapon out as if he meant to protect Jon from whatever this queen had in mind for him. Sandor hadn’t known where the instinct had come from to stop it. Jon was just a bastard, a nobody. What did Sandor care if the queen meant to burn him alive? He was terrified of the flames, and yet he had walked close enough to snatch the boy to safety.

 

Daenerys looked across the distance at him, the gleam of the fire still in her eyes, as a small laugh bubbled up in her throat.

 

“What do you mean to do with that sword?” she asked in her false impression of innocence, and when Sandor took notice of his surroundings, he saw that Daenerys had guards all around them. Some of them were slowly creeping up the steps. All of the guards had their swords drawn and shining, their silver blades reflecting the fires with each twist and turn of their bodies.

 

“Lord Clegane,” Jon said slowly, “it is all right. You may let me go.”

 

“She tried to burn you alive,” Sandor growled, refusing to lower his sword.

 

“Please, Lord Clegane,” Jon repeated. “Let me go.”

 

At first, Sandor did not relent. As the guards drew ever closer, though, he clenched his teeth together and released Jon from his hold, but he did not lower his sword. Jon turned around to face Sandor, and his expression seemed to be pleading with him. Sandor didn’t understand. How could the boy be so calm at a moment like this? Did he mean to die? Had she bewitched him into thinking he had to sacrifice himself for a victory or some other horseshit prophecy? Sandor scowled even deeper at the thought.

 

“Lord Clegane, lower your sword,” Jon said softly. “I will show you. There is nothing to fear. She means me no harm. Do you want me to show you?”

 

“Show me what?” Sandor rasped, not comprehending the boy’s meaning. He slowly turned his head to eye his surroundings and measure the distance of each of the guards. They had stopped their procession towards him, but Sandor didn’t trust them for one moment.

 

“Watch,” Jon instructed him, and Sandor watched as Jon lifted up his arm. It was then that Sandor noticed the boy’s sleeve had been rolled up beyond his elbow and close to his shoulder. Sandor wondered how he hadn’t noticed that until now. Jon’s eyes were fixed on Sandor at first, a look of pure calm within them, and then he turned his body and his gaze towards the flames of the brazier as they roared upwards into the air before him. Jon took a deep breath, and slowly, he extended his arm out into the fire.

 

He didn’t scream. He wasn’t in pain. Jon breathed normally as his hand went into the flames, and he blinked as though he had just dipped his hand into water and nothing more. Jon held his hand there in the fire for some time before he withdrew it, and there was no scarring. No bubbling or melted skin. No smell of burnt flesh. Jon’s hand was the same coming out of the fire as it had been going into the fire, and he turned to Sandor. Jon held up his hand for Sandor to see the result as though he could not already see it clear enough.

 

“Do you see, Lord Clegane?” Jon asked him, and Sandor looked up from Jon’s hand to his face. The boy’s voice was unsteady despite his feat. “I have been burned before. When I served the Night’s Watch, I fought off a wight to save the life of my Lord Commander. I set it on fire to kill it, and my hand was badly burned.” Jon held up his right hand to show his scarring from the burns, but it was his left hand that he had put into the fire. Side by side, he held them up together. His left hand was untouched, unmarked, and pristine in comparison to his right hand. “I was on the brink of death, but I came back to life, and now the fire does not hurt me anymore.”

 

“How is that possible?” Sandor demanded, and his eyes flitted between Jon and the figure of the queen behind Jon’s figure. She drew closer to Jon, resting her hand upon his shoulder as though they were so familiar with each other.

 

“Because he is my blood,” Daenerys announced proudly, loud enough for all of the hall to hear her. She turned her head to the crowd. “He is not Jon Snow, bastard of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell,” she called out to them. “He is Jon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark, and he has the blood of the dragon in him as I do. Together, we will ride my dragons north to fight the threat beyond the Wall. We will end this war and save the realm and restore Targaryen rule to the Seven Kingdoms.” Daenerys then aimed her eyes back upon Sandor. “If you value your life, my lord, I suggest you put away your sword.”

 

Sandor’s jaw clenched tight at the order, but he did as he was bid and sheathed his sword once more. Daenerys called off her guards in a tongue that Sandor did not understand, and they put away their swords as well before they returned to their positions amongst the crowd, but they remained in close proximity to the queen’s presence. Jon slowly approached Sandor as if he meant to speak to him, but Sandor turned his back on the boy and strode away from him as quickly as his feet could take him.

 

Sandor left the hall, abandoning the crowd to their absurd merrymaking, and stormed his way through the long corridors of the ruined castle. He reached his shared quarters with Lord Tyrion and Jon Snow, and with agitated movements, he began to pack his things. He was leaving at first light tomorrow, and nothing anyone said was going to stop him from getting away from this mummer’s farce and returning to his wife. He had _had_ it with queens and kings and royalty and prophecies and war. They could have their mummer’s farce and bloody well leave him out of it.

 

As he threw his things into a bag, he heard the door to the private chambers open up. Sandor continued to pack, ignoring the sound.

 

“Is everything all right?” the voice asked hesitantly, and it was the last voice Sandor had expected to hear. It belonged to Tyrion, the little lord whom Sandor had never gotten along with, nor had he ever liked. He had despised Tyrion for most of his life, attributing his hatred with the dwarf to the rumor of Tyrion’s first wife as well as Cersei’s lifelong loathing for her little brother. Sandor had been influenced a long time by both things, though he found himself questioning each of those reasons with recent events. Cersei had been mad in the end, and the rumor of Tyrion’s first wife had been a lie perpetuated by his father, Lord Tywin Lannister.

 

Sandor realized he had stopped packing. Agitated with himself again, he began to pack once more.

 

“Are you leaving us so soon?” Tyrion prodded further, trying to sound more cheerful with his second question.

 

Sandor froze yet another time. He stared down at the tunic in his hand. It was a fine tunic Sansa had made for him back when they had lived in Pentos. He ran his thumb over the fabric, which was smooth to the touch beneath the pad of his thumb.

 

“Yes,” Sandor rasped in reply, gently folding over the tunic and putting it away into his bag. He lifted his head, though Tyrion was behind him and Sandor’s eyes only stared forward at the wall before him. “I’m going home,” he said at last.


	21. Life into the World

_xxi._

 

As Sansa walked down the corridor side by side with Lord Davos Seaworth, their arms were linked together while they carried on a pleasant conversation with one another. Sansa found herself laughing happily at something he had shared with her, her laugh echoing off the walls around them, and Lord Davos allowed himself a hearty laugh beside her as well. She laid her free hand upon his arm, glancing over at him when a sudden sensation of cramping in her lower stomach caused her to stop in place. Sansa glanced down at herself as her hand left Davos’s arm and pressed itself to her belly.

 

“Are you all right, my lady?” Davos inquired with concern in his voice, and Sansa raised her eyes to his worried gaze. She still felt the strong cramps in her tummy, but the sharp pain it had begun with already faded away. It did not feel as though it would come back. For a moment, Sansa believed that everything was fine, and she went to smile at Lord Davos and tell him that everything was all right, but suddenly, the pain pulsed back stronger with a sensation of tightening in her lower body. Sansa reached out and grabbed for Davos’s arm, clutching onto him with nails that dug past the sleeves of his doublet.

 

Sansa’s legs felt loose beneath her, and Davos quickly reacted to catch her as they almost gave out beneath her. It was such a strange sensation and a painful one as well, and Sansa had never experienced it before in all her life, but she knew without a doubt in that moment what was happening to her.

 

She was having the baby.

 

“The baby,” she whispered, looking up at Davos as she clutched onto him for support, “the baby is coming.”

 

Lord Davos’s eyes grew wide at this news from her mouth. He began to shake his head. “My lady, that is not possible,” he said. “You have not been with child long enough to give birth—”

 

All propriety aside, Sansa knew she had no time to argue with Lord Davos with a baby on the way. “That is not true,” she revealed to him, sounding desperate from her pains. “I have been with child since before my wedding, and the baby is coming, my lord.”

 

If it was at all possible, his eyes grew wider with further shock to hear this from her as well. However, Sansa saw no judgment in his look. Davos must have then realized the importance and the seriousness of the situation dawning ahead of them. Immediately, he scooped her up into his arms with care in how he held her and hurried them both through the castle, calling for maesters and announcing the arrival of the baby as they passed by every single door and person down the halls of the Great Keep. Soon enough, a whole crowd was ushering Sansa into her personal chambers. Davos laid her down upon the bed, and Sansa could not keep up with the flurry around her.

 

They shut the doors with most of the people on the outside rather than it, and everything in the room was prepared for the birthing. Sansa’s panic increased monumentally until Marya clutched her hand in support, and Sansa looked up at her. Marya had given birth to seven children, so she knew what was in store for Sansa, and her look of encouragement helped Sansa to steel herself against the pain and the fear and the uncertainty of giving birth. Her water had long since broken, soaking into her linens, and the contractions in her body grew stronger with each passing moment. Compared to Maester Luwin, this new maester was younger and somewhat inexperienced, but at the same time he had performed well with delivering a fair number of babies to have good knowledge of what he was meant to do, and that helped to ease Sansa’s mind.

 

The maester and Marya told her what to do, and hours upon hours passed with Sansa screaming as they begged her to push. Marya cleansed her forehead with a dampened cloth, for Sansa felt as though she was sweating all over her body in a torrential waterfall. They had stripped her of her outer dress, but left her in her chemise underneath it, but the material was damp with her sweat. The draperies had been pulled shut, blocking out the light from outside. Only stray beams of light managed to peek their way through the curtains into the room, which was darkened for but a few candles lit to allow for ease of eyesight and for the maester to see what he was doing. Sansa didn’t understand why it had to be so dark in here, but they insisted it was best for her and the baby. She would have argued, but there was hardly any strength left in her for it.

 

All of it was on the baby.

 

Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes. Sansa could not understand how bringing life into the world could be so painful, or why it should be so painful when the act that created it was so loving and pleasurable. Some part of her had always wanted to be a mother, even when she was younger, but as she had grown up, her trials and tribulations had disillusioned her from the ideals of her youth. Sansa had still been herself, but she had also been different. She had become a different person through everything she had gone through in her life. For the longest time, Sansa had not wanted to ever marry again. She had entertained no thoughts of motherhood. These had been things for other women, Sansa had thought to herself, not for her. She had wanted no man and no husband. She had only wanted to be herself.

 

Over time as she had lived with Sandor, those feelings had changed for Sansa. He had treated her in Pentos unlike any other man she had known since him in King’s Landing. Sandor had kept his distance from her unless she had invaded his space, and even then, he did not try anything with her. He watched over her, and he protected her for years without expecting her to become his woman or his mistress. Sansa had enjoyed the friendship between them and the simplicity of their relationship, but those feelings had slowly turned into something more for the man who took care of her. His selfless devotion to her drew her to him, and as she had grown into a young woman, Sansa realized she had desired Sandor.

 

She had always remembered the kiss. He had told her it was no real kiss, but she remembered it all the same. Sansa recalled it always, false though the memory might have been. His cruel lips had pressed to hers, but he had never taken more from her in the memory. Just the kiss, and then he left her with a bloody cloak. It was not real, she realized years later, but it had been real to her for years, and Sansa could not dismiss it from her mind despite uncovering the truth. Even then in King’s Landing, she believed some part of her must have always desired him to have thought up such an intricate lie to herself.

 

It was what was inside of him that had won her over in the end, though. His face had been damaged by a fire from when he was only a boy, and there were times when his height and size alone had been frightening to her. Sansa had learned to find these things about him to be comforting, though, because he had been the only thing left to her in the world for a long time. Sandor might have found her affection to be disconcerting in the beginning, but Sansa had not known how else to express herself to him but through hugs, quick kisses, and gentle touches. Eventually, he had become used to them. Sometimes he even had welcomed them, though it had seemed rare to Sansa. It had not been long after that when she would let her hands linger on him or her body press to his, and sometimes she would dress a certain way to gain his attention. Sansa had noticed from time to time that Sandor’s gaze would linger on her, how he watched her.

 

Through that, she had realized her desire. Sansa had liked it when he looked at her. She had liked having his attention. She had never liked that sort of attention before, had never wanted it from any man. Her girlish crushes from the past had been completely innocent in their nature as she had not been a woman at that time. Sansa had known what went on in a marriage bed. She had known what husbands and wives did in the privacy of their chambers, and she had also known what men did with prostitutes. As she grew older and discovered her desires, she had explored her own body until she had been ready to approach Sandor with those desires in mind.

 

It had not crossed her mind at the time the possibility of getting with child. Of course, Sansa had known it was a possibility, but she had never put much thought into it. Maybe it had been her youth. Sandor had been careful at first, pulling out before he peaked during their lovemaking, but later on, he had forgotten about it entirely. Sandor had gotten so carried away with Sansa that he had forgotten it as well, and neither of them thought of the consequences of their actions or that it might make them parents one day.

 

It had done just that, too. They had married in Pentos. She had grown with child, and the war in the Seven Kingdoms raged on without them. Reports had come to them that Lord Rickon was alive, and so was her brother Jon Snow. Sansa had come back home to face an annulment with Lord Tyrion and a new wedding with Sandor, but he was not just Sandor Clegane anymore. He had become Lord Sandor Clegane, a title bestowed upon him by her brother, Lord Rickon, for his honorable return of the Lady Sansa Stark.

 

They had sent Sandor away for peace negotiations in the south with Jon and Lord Tyrion, and left Sansa here all by herself with child to face this childbirth alone. Of course, she was not truly alone. Marya Seaworth was with her by her side, the maester called out that he could see the baby’s head, and the few others there were in the room lent their help in what ways they could to assist with the birth. Sansa’s hands gripped mercilessly at the sheets for purchase with each push they urged her to give, and so she pushed, and she pushed, and she pushed even when it felt like she could do it no more.

 

Sansa had no idea how many hours had passed or what time of day it even was anymore, but the baby was out, and she could hear it crying. Sansa thought maybe she would know immediately if it was a boy or a girl, but she simply couldn’t tell from the cry alone. Marya helped her to relax her body as they cleaned up the baby at the foot of the bed. Sansa tried to look up to see her child, but she did not have the strength to hold her head up for long. Instead, it fell back to the pillows. Her breathing was ragged and deep, and she prayed silently for them to bring her child to her so that she might hold her baby in her arms.

 

Marya had left her side, but when she came back, she came back bearing a bundle in her arms and the biggest smile on her face. Despite her smile, there were tears in her eyes. Sansa feared the sight of tears at first until she recognized that the look was one of awe and love and not bad news.

 

“It’s a beautiful healthy boy,” Marya told her, handing the swaddled bundle to Sansa.

 

Gently, Sansa accepted her baby boy into her arms. He was still as red as a beet, but he had little swirls of dark hair upon his head. Surprisingly, he was very calm. He had cried at first, but once he had been cleaned and taken care of and wrapped up, he had settled into a peaceful state with his eyes half shut. He opened them a little bit to look back at her, and his mouth opened a little bit, too. Sansa felt a mixture between wanting to laugh and cry overtake her as her boy stuck out his tongue from between his lips. She settled on doing both things at once, laughing softly as tears stung in the back of her eyes.

 

When he did open his eyes somewhat, she could see that they were bright blue like hers. She wondered what she should name him, but no names came to mind that stuck themselves in place. As much as she would have loved to honor the memory of her father or one of her brothers, Sansa feared the names would only make her sadder to repeat them everyday. She was not sure if she could handle any of those names for her child this close to the loss of them. It had been a few years since the loss of her father and her brothers, but still, it felt too close.

 

“Have you decided on a name?” Marya asked her kindly, and Sansa realized that they had opened the doors because Lord Davos was in the room with them now. He strode up to Marya’s side, looking down at the bundle in Sansa’s arm with a happy and proud look upon his face.

 

“A boy,” Davos said, and he looked down at Sansa as he smiled brightly. The expression crinkled his eyes at the corners. “Congratulations, Lady Sansa.”

 

“Thank you,” Sansa told him, her voice low and quiet as she gazed at her baby boy. She did not want to talk too loudly with him right there in her arms. “I have not yet thought of a name,” she admitted. “I do not know what to name him.”

 

“You can always name him after family,” Davos suggested, but Sansa shook her head. She had already dismissed that thought not too long ago.

 

“I am not sure I would be ready for that, Lord Davos,” she said, briefly glancing up at him before returning her eyes to her son. Soon enough from being born, he had already fallen asleep in her arms.

 

“Look at him,” Marya said, smiling. “He is as tired as you.”

 

Sansa would have laughed if she had any more strength to do so. “He is not as tired as me,” Sansa said matter-of-factly. “He is just lazy,” she added in a loving voice, teasing him for the very first time as a smile upturned her lips.

 

Everyone in the room laughed at her jest, and Sansa gently stroked her hand over his head to touch the fine locks of hair upon it. He was so soft and small. It amazed her just to look at him. Sansa had seen babies before, of course, but this was her child. It was so different to look at her own child newly born than to see someone else’s baby shortly after he or she had been born. It overwhelmed her to know that she had brought this beautiful baby boy into the world with Sandor, even if he wasn’t here to see his boy right in this moment with her.

 

She wondered where Sandor was right now. Once the thought crossed her mind, Sansa glanced up at the doorway as if she expected Sandor to appear there and come bursting into the room. However, the doorway remained empty when she looked up at it. Either all of the people who wanted to be in the room were in the room already, or they had walked away after being shooed into the opposite direction. The maester said it was not good for her or the baby to be crowded by too many people, and so he had insisted that most of the people leave and return to their various duties around the castle and its grounds.

 

He would be happy, she thought, to know it was a boy. Sandor would not know what to do with a girl. He had barely known what to do with her. The thought brought another smile to her face, but it was not long until her baby boy woke up from his nap and began to cry. They fetched a wet nurse for him, insisting it was best for the wet nurse to take care of such duties instead of Sansa. Marya scoffed at this, saying she breastfeed every single boy of hers off of her own teats.

 

Marya, however, had been a simple woman before her husband had been raised to his lordly status. A lady did not breastfeed her own babies, but some part of Sansa ached as they took him out of her arms and handed him to another woman to feed him. Despite the customs, Sansa wanted to do it herself, but she was too tired at the moment to argue with anyone about it. Perhaps later, when no one was looking, she could feed her own child and there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about it if she was alone with him.

 

All of these thoughts, though, made Sansa realize she needed to pick a name. She couldn’t continue to think of him only as her baby in her head. The boy needed a name, but whatever name she gave him would be his identity for the rest of his life. It was very important to pick the proper name, one that would be right for him.

 

She thought about it as he breastfeed from the wet nurse. When he was finished and returned back to her embrace, Sansa glanced down at him and found herself smiling at each little wrinkle on his face, the way his tongue pressed itself past his lips, and how his little fingers curled around her finger and held fast.

 

“Welcome to your home,” she whispered to him, bending down to place a kiss upon his forehead, “my sweet Erryk.”


	22. A Way Home

_xxii._

 

The corridors were long and dark with far-reaching shadows thrown across the walls from the torches, but Sandor knew the way. Though Winterfell’s halls were new to him, Sandor remembered them well from the little time he spent in them before he left for the south with Jon Snow and Lord Tyrion. He recalled the way to Sansa’s bedchambers in the Great Keep. As he drew nearer, Sandor quickened his pace.

 

He burst through the door of Sansa’s chambers without stopping to knock.

 

Sandor didn’t expect to find an empty bed with untouched sheets awaiting him. He knew Sansa was alive and well, and so was the child. Upon his arrival back in Winterfell, he had barked the question of Sansa’s whereabouts to the first green boy he saw rushing towards him to help him with his horse and belongings. The boy told him she was in her rooms with the newborn, where she had been ever since she had given birth to the babe. All was well, the boy assured him. It was a healthy boy.

 

Beyond the doors to her chamber, Sansa was sitting upright in her bed with the covers pulled up to her waist. A myriad of burgundy and grey pillows were set up behind her back, and she was dressed in a large and loose bedgown the color of cream with long flowing sleeves that reached her wrists. Sansa looked up all of a sudden at the sound of the door flying open into her room, but her brief look of surprise vanished and became one of happiness at the sight of him. She smiled brightly in a way that reached her eyes. Though her hair was matted and messy, unwashed for days or longer, and her face was somewhat pale with dark circles under her eyes, Sandor had never seen a more beautiful sight.

 

She was alive and well, and in her arms she held a little bundle wrapped up in linens whiter than her gown. It was silent in the room, not a single cry or whine. Sandor took a step forward, and then another followed by another, and he kept walking until he reached the side of her bed.

 

Sansa glanced down at the babe in her arms. “He is asleep,” she said out loud. “He is a quiet boy. He does not cry much. I think it is because he’s happy.”

 

“Is he?” Sandor asked, though he didn’t expect another answer.

 

“He is,” Sansa told him, and she looked up at Sandor again. Sandor raised his eyes from the babe as well to meet her gaze.

 

“Does he have a name?” Sandor asked further. “Have you named him?”

 

“Erryk,” Sansa revealed with a softer smile. “Erryk Clegane. He will be a lord one day, just like his father.”

 

“A better lord,” Sandor rasped, glancing down at the boy. “He’ll be raised to it.”

 

“He will learn all that he should know of lordship from his father,” Sansa said in a soft voice, lowering her gaze to the boy as well. “He will learn that to lead, he must first follow. He will learn the importance of loyalty and honesty. He will learn to protect the weak and to stand up for them. He will learn there is more to a person than their name, and he will respect all people, little and big.” Sansa reached out with her free hand, the one not cradling the babe to her breast, and caressed her fingers over the boy’s fragile forehead. Her fingers brushed stray wisps of hair out of his face as he slept on in unawares. “He will be a good and valiant lord like his father before him.”

 

Sandor sat down on the edge of the bed. It sunk under his added weight, and Sansa lifted her eyes to him as she pulled her hand away from the boy’s almost hairless head.

 

“I have not been a lord a year,” he reminded her. “That’s something he’ll learn from his mother, not me.”

 

“He will learn it from you,” Sansa insisted quietly. She smiled down at her boy, and then she returned her gaze to Sandor. Her mouth was turned upwards in the corner. “I will make sure of it.”

 

“You mean to teach me?” Sandor scoffed at her.

 

Sansa laughed, a gentle laugh. Everything about her was gentle. On the outside, that was. On the inside she could be as hard as stone. She had learned that a long time ago as a way to survive. Sandor liked to think sometimes it was thanks to him, but there was something of her father in her. It had always been in there, even if it was buried deep in the beginning back when she was just a girl.

 

“Do you want to hold him?” Sansa asked aloud, and she leaned away from the headboard to hold out her arms towards Sandor with the boy in them. She had cradled both arms around the babe, holding him securely in her embrace, but Sandor leaned away from her as she came towards him.

 

“I’d best not,” he said, shaking his head.

 

Sansa looked hurt by his easy dismissal. “He’s your son,” she protested. “Please, Sandor, hold him.”

 

He stared down at the boy, a tiny thing wrapped up in a cocoon of linen. The babe was still fast asleep, breathing steadily in a near motionless slumber. The boy appeared so fragile and breakable. Sandor was half afraid he might hold the child wrong and hurt him. Sansa pulled herself further away from the headboard and closer towards Sandor, and she extended her arms out more to him. She was offering the boy to him, whether he wanted to hold him or not.

 

Sandor did want to hold him, so he pushed back the anxiety from his mind and reached out for the bundle in Sansa’s arms. She transferred their son safely into Sandor’s embrace, a soft smile on her face as she did so. Sandor did not see it, though. His gaze was focused solely on the babe in his arms. He was terrified of holding the child, and yet he was glad at the same time, feeling the confusion of both emotions in turmoil against each other inside of his head. Yet as he held the child, nothing happened to the boy. The boy continued to sleep on in his arms, and Sandor was suddenly afraid.

 

He was afraid he would fail the boy. Sandor feared he would fail the boy like he failed Joffrey. He was no father figure for a child. He couldn’t do it the first time. How did he expect to do it this time? He would fail all over again, and make this innocent child into another monster like Joffrey—like his brother.

 

“Sandor,” Sansa whispered before him, and he felt the cool fingers of her hand touch his chin and raise his face to hers. Sandor lifted his eyes to meet Sansa’s gaze. Her look of concern was etched with a tender love, and she stroked the side of his cheek with her hand.

 

There were hot tears on his cheeks, and her cool fingers brushed them away.

 

“This is our child,” Sansa told him. “Mine and yours, and we will take care of him together. Everything will be all right. You are home now, and we can be a family as we were meant to be.”

 

Sandor handed the boy back to Sansa, and she took Erryk into her arms, even though she looked confused by the sudden switch. He stood up abruptly from the bed, and Sansa raised her eyes to him. Her look of worry increased tenfold, and she held the boy close to her breast.

 

“Is something wrong?” Sansa asked in a quiet voice, sounding as though she feared the answer to that.

 

“I came back alone,” Sandor informed her with a dry rasp. The emotion was gone from his voice, and he spoke plainly. “Jon Snow stayed in the south with the Queen and Lord Tyrion.”

 

“Why did he stay in the south with them?” Sansa asked further, her voice slower this time, and she furrowed her brow as a mixed look of worry and fear passed over her face.

 

“The Queen means to attack beyond the Wall with her dragons,” he told Sansa, “and your brother means to ride one of them with her.”

 

“Jon,” Sansa repeated in disbelief, “ride a _dragon_?”

 

“That’s what he means to do,” Sandor said. “He put his hand to the fire, and it didn’t burn. She has got him convinced he’s Targaryen like her, so he means to ride a dragon north of the Wall to stop what’s coming.”

 

Sansa opened her mouth as if to say something else, but the words died on her tongue. She looked lost, and her gaze began to move left and right over the room instead of focusing on Sandor. Sansa held the babe even closer to her chest as though she feared dragons or something worse might come down upon them at any moment.

 

“What’s coming?” Sansa asked, her voice barely a whisper.

 

“Have you heard them talk of what’s beyond the Wall?”

 

“I’ve heard some things,” Sansa told him, “but I didn’t think . . . ”

 

“Didn’t think they were real?” Sandor finished for her, cutting Sansa off.

 

Sansa swallowed past a catch in her throat. “I’ve heard stories, of course. We all heard stories growing up, me and my sister and brothers. Old Nan used to tell us those stories when we were just children, and I was afraid of them as a child. As I grew up, I stopped believing in them. I never thought they were real after that. My lady mother didn’t believe in them. My lord father . . . ”

 

“Lord Stark believed in them,” Sandor answered in a quiet rasp. “He had the North in his blood, so he believed in them.”

 

Sansa looked up from the bed. “Are they coming?”

 

“Might be anything out there coming for us,” Sandor replied. “Monsters, men, or beasts. All might come our way and ravage us in the middle of the night. Best prepare ourselves whether it gets here or not. Your brother left strict orders for me in his stead.”

 

“Are you to serve Lord Rickon?” Sansa asked, and the babe stirred in her arms, so she glanced down at him and rocked him gently. Sandor watched her do so in silence.

 

“I’m to serve Lord Rickon in his stead, yes,” he told her. Sandor hesitated on his next words. He knew it was important to tell Sansa, and she must be made aware of it, but it would kill the joy in her heart. He had to tell her, though. “If the Wall comes down,” Sandor continued slowly, “and the frost gets thicker, I’m to take you and the child to White Harbor. We’re to find a ship or a boat and sail east. Your brother made that clear.”

 

“And abandon Rickon?” Sansa protested, clearly angry at the very idea.

 

“Lord Rickon may choose to stay or leave,” Sandor said to her. “You can’t make him come. As Lord of Winterfell, he may choose to stay. You can ask him when the time comes, if it comes, but don’t expect him to follow us east.”

 

The babe awoke in her arms, a quiet wail building up to a cry. Sansa’s face was marked with exasperation as she looked down at the boy, though her feelings were not because of Erryk. Sandor knew it was his fault, that look on her face. It was awful news to hear on the eve of his arrival back home, but she needed to hear it whether she had liked it or not. Jon might have been young, but he wasn’t a green boy anymore, and Sandor had developed a certain respect for the young man during their time traveling together and during their stay in the south.

 

Bastard he might have been called all his life, but Jon had been raised by Starks. He had Stark blood in his veins, and he even had their bullheaded honor. Admirable, Sandor thought, and sometimes stupid as well. Jon reminded Sandor of Lord Eddard Stark on more than one occasion, and even his dark looks echoed of Lord Eddard. If he wasn’t Lord Eddard’s son, then he was Lady Lyanna’s son as the Queen had spoken of herself. Stark and Targaryen. _Ice and fire_ , Sandor thought.

 

If Jon gave him orders, then Sandor was going to obey them. He wasn’t going to get on the bad side of someone who could ride a bloody buggering dragon.

 

“He’s hungry,” Sansa said aloud, sounding tired and upset, and she pulled down her bedgown to expose a teat for the babe.

 

“Aren’t there wet nurses for that?” Sandor asked her, narrowing his eyes. Highborns always had wet nurses as far as Sandor could remember.

 

“I want to do it myself,” Sansa answered softly with a mild note of petulance in her voice.

 

Sandor did not say anything else. Instead, he watched as she feed the boy from her breast. His crying stopped straight away, and despite the slightly pained look on Sansa’s face, some of her worry seemed to melt away from her expression. Sandor stood in silence, observing them for some time, before he raised his chin to speak.

 

“I’ll be in the Great Hall,” he said abruptly. “I’ve had a long journey and little to eat.”

 

Sansa looked up from the babe in her arms, and she smiled softly at him. The lines of worry did not disappear completely, but her smile erased a few of them.

 

Sandor nodded his head curtly, and then he disappeared beyond her door, shutting it as he left to give her some privacy with the babe. It closed behind him with a soft click. For a instant, he stood there, touching the door with his hand, and listened. Sandor couldn’t hear anything beyond the thick wood, though. He waited as if he might soon hear something from within Sansa’s bedchamber, but when there was nothing but continued silence, he let his hand fall from the door. The tips of his callused fingers brushed against the fine etchings in its old and battered surface.

 

Sandor pulled away from the door. Turning away from her bedchamber, he made his way down the dark corridors of the castle towards the Great Hall.


	23. The Northern Winds

_xxiii._

 

After the wet nurse took Erryk from Sansa’s tired arms, Sansa carefully rose from the bed. Her legs felt weak beneath her, but she ignored the funny sensations and made her way over to the wash basin in her chambers. The water was lukewarm, but refreshing. Sansa dipped her hands, leaned forward, and gently splashed her face with water. It was soothing on her face, and she took the small towel lying beside the basin and used it to pat her skin dry. When she opened her eyes again, the world looked clearer for it. Sansa smiled somewhat at the change, and then she turned around to fetch one of her robes.

 

She slipped it onto her arms and walked over to the door, exiting her chambers and closing the door behind her soundlessly so as not to disturb little Erryk. She had been bedridden for so long after the boy’s birth that she had left bed for very few things. Amongst those things were relieving herself, bathing, or eating. The maester’s orders were very strict, and they involved Sansa not exerting herself beyond her measure as her body healed itself after the birth. There wasn’t much healing to be had from what Sansa could tell. She was not bleeding, nor did she need any special treatments to sustain her after the birth.

 

Everything was fine, and Sansa was ready to walk on her own without someone stopping her.

 

As she walked down the hallway, Sansa thought about Sandor’s return and his reaction to his son. Some part of her had expected him to be happier, but she had known Sandor for a long time. He was not a man of happiness. When it came to emotions, he showed what he needed to and that was enough for him. She did not think him unloving for it, but she would have to take the time with him and their son to make sure Sandor became used to the idea of fatherhood. A small part of her feared he might otherwise ignore the boy out of uncertainty or fear, and she did not want that for either of them.

 

She came upon one of the guards making his way down a hallway in quick steps, though he stopped at the sight of Sansa walking around on her own.

 

“My lady,” he said in surprise, bowing in her direction.

 

Sansa accepted the bow with a small tilt of her head. “Lord Clegane,” she began, “where is he?”

 

“He is out in the training yard, my lady,” the man informed her.

 

“Thank you,” Sansa said in earnest, bowing only her head towards him for his answer. With nothing more said between them, she made her way through the castle to the training yard. Sansa hoped her robes would be thick enough for the harsh and unforgiving winter winds that bit the grounds outside.

 

They were barely enough, though. Once outside, Sansa felt the sting of the cold air like a slap against her face. She squinted to shield her eyes and wrapped her arms firmly around her chest. Bending her head downward to avert the wind, Sansa walked off into the piles of snow along the ground. Not three yards into it, she began to regret her decision to go outside. She was not wearing any boots suitable for the weather, and on her feet were mere slippers from her bedroom chambers.

 

She heard someone call out to her over the wind, and Sansa looked up, but she could not make out any of the faces.

 

One of the figures came towards her. He was half-hidden by the gusts of wind laced with tiny snowflakes. As he drew closer, Sansa could see his towering and broad frame and the cloak of black fur swirling behind him against the backdrop of a white world.

 

The cloak left his shoulders, and before Sansa knew it, he draped her in it.

 

“You will catch your death out here,” Sandor barked at her, and he took her by the shoulders in a manner so gentle it seemed impossible for a man of his size. He turned her around and escorted her back into the castle. It reminded Sansa of so many times before in their past. As the door shut behind him, encasing them in the warm walls of Winterfell that echoed of earth, darkness mixed with soil and a comfortable heat, Sansa recalled being a young maiden on the cusp of her womanhood in King’s Landing. It had been late, she had been terrified, and Sandor had asked his questions but expected no true answers out of her. He had escorted her back into the Red Keep, and lied for her, even though she had lied to him out on the serpentine.

 

With that memory replaying in the back of her mind, Sansa realized there was a pair of hands on her body. It was Sandor. In a gruff but kind manner, he brushed away the snow from her shoulders, the cloak he had placed upon her back, and even from her hair. It fell to the floor in little white tufts, and Sansa glanced down to look at them.

 

“What were you doing?” Sandor asked her, breaking her from her reverie. Sansa looked up into his face, her lips parted slightly in shock. “Wandering around in the snow like that?”

 

Sansa brought both of her hands to front of the cloak Sandor had put upon her shoulders, clutching it together underneath her neck. “I was looking for you,” she answered, meeting his eyes.

 

“You ought to be resting,” Sandor told her. “Not roaming about the castle like—”

 

“I can _roam_ if I _want_ to,” Sansa snapped, giving him a look. “I do not have to stay in bed for the rest of my life. I am in good health. There is no reason I shouldn’t walk the castle.”

 

Sandor stared down at her in the dim light of the hallway. It was lit with nothing but a few torches, and the light swayed to and fro. The walls here looked brown instead of flecked dark grey the color of granite, and it felt like they were deep in the earth somewhere instead of on ground level. Outside the door behind Sandor were the grounds to Winterfell, but in here it seemed a world away.

 

Some of these halls reminded Sansa of the crypts of Winterfell. A shiver passed through her shoulders at that thought, she drew the cloak tighter about her chest.

 

She expected Sandor to say something crude, but he was silent. He shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

 

“How is the boy?” Sandor asked after a period of silence.

 

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him. “His name is Erryk, Sandor,” she said quietly. Despite the look on her face, there was a note of longing in her voice. “Please, call him by his name. He is your son.”

 

Sandor returned her look, but then his face softened under the torchlight.

 

“How is Erryk?” he asked, his voice rough but tender.

 

“He is good,” she told him, taking a step forward. “I left him with the wet nurse to feed him and watch over him.” Sansa took another step forward, and she let go of the cloak, letting it hang loosely around her shoulders, as she reached out for Sandor’s chest. Tentatively, she rested her hands upon him. Sandor had come home after being gone for so many months, and then he had left her chambers so abruptly. He had not even kissed her as he had done before he left Winterfell before the baby was even born.

 

“I have missed you,” Sansa whispered longingly, raising her eyes from his chest. She was sure her eyes were glistening. They felt wet, and she was tired, even if she insisted she was fine.

 

Sandor reminded motionless for a time, but she felt his hand on the side of her face. There was a gentle brush of his callused thumb against her cheek, and she closed her eyes against the touch. When Sansa opened them again, the mask of strength he wore on his face had cracked to reveal what was beneath the surface. Sandor did not often let his sentiments through. He didn’t know how to in a way that wasn’t sometimes both terrifying and overwhelming, but there were softer moments like this where even an inch was enough for her to understand him.

 

Sansa reached up to cup the sides of his face with her hands, drew him towards her, and placed her lips upon his in a chaste kiss. It was wonderful to feel him again after so long of being apart from him, and Sansa wrapped her arms around his body as she pulled away, resting her head against his chest.

 

Sandor lifted his arms, placing them around her body, and hugged her close to him. As simple as it was, Sansa closed her eyes to savor the moment in his arms. Though it was simple, she had been longing for this moment ever since he had left to go south with her brother, Jon, and Lord Tyrion.

 

He was back with her now, and that was all that mattered. The rest would come to them in time, and Sansa could wait for it all as long as he was beside her.


	24. In Deep Water

_xxiv._

 

As Sandor lied in bed unable to sleep, he glanced over at Sansa’s peaceful resting form beside him. Her hair was freshly washed, giving her tresses a softly flowing free tumble upon her pillow. It had a quality of light fluff, and the color appeared lighter than before, but that was due to its cleanliness now. Earlier, Sansa had complained of its dirtiness and the greasy feel of it when she ran her fingers through her hair, and so Sandor had wordlessly taken her to the washroom that very evening and prepared a bath for her. Sansa had watched him with a look of disbelief on her face when he began pouring the water into the tub, and he had instructed her to undress.

 

Despite having been married already and sharing their marriage bed before they ever wed, Sansa had blushed a shade of crimson at his instructions. He had not seen that color on her cheeks in a long time. She had been pale lately ever since he arrived back in Winterfell. _As pale as a ghost_ , Sandor thought sometimes, and it bothered him. He had given her the instructions a second time to make sure she followed them, and Sansa had finally obliged. She had shed her clothes one by one, and he had helped her into the tub.

 

Sandor had not stripped off his clothes to join her in the water, choosing instead to only remove what garments would unnecessarily get in the way. Sandor had gotten himself down to his loose tunic, rolled up at the sleeves, and his trousers and boots. Though the sight of Sansa naked was tempting and arousing after so long without her, Sandor had fought off the urges it brought him. He had been more worried about her healing from childbirth than trying to have his way with her. As she had reclined in the tub, Sandor had remained outside of it. He had taken a chair and set it beside the tub, and from there, Sandor had helped her wash and cleanse her hair.

 

When Sansa had been bathed down to her toes, she had slowly opened her eyes and looked across the rim of the tub at him. Her cheeks had been flushed with color due to the heat of the water, which still had steam rising from it even in that moment, and she had leaned forward against the edge of the tub. Sansa’s hand had reached out for him, a single wet finger grazing the edge of his jaw.

 

“You should join me,” Sansa had whispered in a soft voice to him, and Sandor’s face had twisted as he warred within himself about whether to join her or leave at once. It hadn’t been because he didn’t want her. Sandor had wanted her, but it had felt too soon. Many men took whores while their wives were with child, and then they also sought the solace of paid sex after childbirth while their wives healed, but Sandor could do neither of those things to her. He could not betray her after all of the promises he had made to her.

 

She had been born a lady, and he had been merely gifted the title of a lord. Sansa was worth more than twenty men like him, and he knew it. She knew it.

 

“I shouldn’t,” Sandor had told her, but Sansa had risen from the tub until her chest was bare before him and glistening with the water. She had leaned over the edge, though he hadn’t been far from her. With unsteady hands, Sansa had taken a hold of the hem of Sandor’s shirt and pulled it over his head. He had allowed her without trying to stop her, and when her lips had pressed to his in a gentle kiss, Sandor hadn’t tried to stop that either.

 

Sandor’s hand had found the back of her hair, twisting in the damp tendrils. He had deepened the kiss, desiring nothing more than the feel of her after the long absence of her, and Sansa had moaned softly against his mouth. Her own hands had found the back of his neck, and he leaned closer to the tub. Sansa had sunk back towards the water, pulling away from him.

 

“The water is still hot,” Sansa had murmured as she watched him. Her hand had passed over the surface of the water, swirling soap bubbles around her fingers and causing a ripple to appear.

 

“It’s too soon,” he had said in a low voice, shaking his head.

 

“It’s been _weeks_ ,” Sansa had stressed back to him. “It’s not too soon any longer.”

 

She had been right, of course. The boy was over a month old now, and if Sansa had been ready, then he had decided to just trust her word.

 

He had removed his trousers, letting them fall to the floor before stepping out of them. Descending into the water, Sandor had felt the heat of it, but putting his arm around her middle and pulling her flush to him had been even better in terms of warmth. Sansa had gripped his arms tight, and he had leaned down to kiss her. She was soft and delicate, and Sandor had been gentler with her in those moments than he had ever been with her before.

 

He had run his fingers down her arms, eliciting goose bumps from her flesh. She had once said she loved his imperfections, even in imperfect way in which he kissed due to the ruined corner of his mouth, and so Sandor had trailed his way down her neck to her chest. He had sunk down in the water before her while she remained up, and Sansa’s hands had found their way in his hair as his mouth found its way across her skin everywhere he had wished to kiss her.

 

The water had sloshed out of the tub onto the tiles of the floor below. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Sandor had recalled hearing the sound. His focus, however, had been on her body. He had kissed her everywhere until she had tilted her head back and moaned above him, and his hand had glided along her glistening wet skin to slide between her legs and pleasure her while she stood before him. Sansa’s body had shaken gently with tremors, and she had steadied herself using her hands on his shoulders for support. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he had drawn her towards him and kissed her belly. She was beautiful in every way to him, even now.

 

Sandor had relaxed himself against the side of the tub, taking her with him. The water had been shallow. With her standing, it had only reached up to her thighs. Sandor had taken her by the waist with his hands, and with deliberation, led her to his lap. Sansa had understood his intentions, and she had followed him until she was perched in his lap. While she had used his shoulders to balance herself, Sandor had gripped her hip with one hand and held himself in the other, giving his cock slow strokes under the water. He had used the hand on her hip to guide her down to him, and Sansa had positioned herself above him, taking the led by slowly sinking down onto the length of him.

 

Sansa had gasped, taking it slow. Sandor had let her guide the movements and the pace, never rushing her and holding back his desire to thrust. She had moved her body up and down with a deliberate leisureliness to help herself adjust to the feeling of him, and before long, Sansa’s arms had been wrapped around his neck as she moved in earnest, making pleasurable sounds beside his ear as she held him close. Sandor had gripped her back, holding her tightly, though his kept his thrusts short and easy for her. The water had sloshed out of the tub constantly by this point from Sansa’s movements in particular, but neither of them had been able to build up any thought to care for it.

 

Sandor had wanted his release with her as he had been sure she had wanted with him.

 

It hadn’t taken long for Sansa’s body to seize up with noticeable tremors, and he felt her muscles clench down on him. His realize had come not shortly after hers, but Sandor had grasped her hard by the waist and lifted her from him before he could spill inside of her and risk another pregnancy. Sansa had held onto him tightly around his neck, leaning into him, though he sensed her confusion. In the moments they had taken to simmer down, Sansa slowly lowered herself to sit upon his lap more innocently this time. Sliding her arms down from his neck, she had held her hands there instead as she looked back at him.

 

“Why did you do that?” Sansa had asked in a whisper, caressing a hand through his hair.

 

“We don’t need another child soon,” Sandor had told her, hoping it would be enough of an answer for her. It was the truth. She had only just recovered from childbirth. It was not wise of him to put another child in her so soon after this one had been born.

 

Sansa had said nothing to his reply, though. Instead, she had enveloped him in another hug with her hand upon the back of his head. When he had shifted in the tub, she had hissed slightly in pain. Sandor had pulled back to look at her, and while Sansa’s gaze had met his eyes for all of one moment, she had immediately looked away with a blush to her cheeks.

 

“I’m a little sore,” she had told him, and Sandor had understood her meaning. He had kept still after that, but remained with her in the tub for a little while longer before they had to clean up the mess they had made.

 

Now, it was hours later, and Sansa was fast asleep. Sandor watched her as she slept on in unawares before he shucked off the covers and rose from the bed. He pulled on a shirt, and after a moment’s consideration, put on a pair of boots as well. Sometimes the floors in the Great Keep grew cold, even if the hallways and walls themselves were warm from the hot springs the castle had been built upon in ages past.

 

Sandor glanced back at the room before he left it, gazing upon the towering four-post bed where Sansa slept, the large quarters, and their comely colors. Lord Rickon had gifted the former room of their parents to Sansa and Sandor. It was a large room the young lord had no use for, and so Lord Rickon had taken happily to the sizable quarters that once belonged to his eldest brother, the former King Robb. Sansa had their son, Erryk, moved from her old room to one much closer to their new private chambers in Winterfell. She wanted to be closer to him in case something ever went wrong in the middle of the night, or in case the babe woke up crying in need of anything at all.

 

For the time being, Sandor had thought it wise to remain in Winterfell with Sansa and Erryk to be closer to Lord Rickon and Lord Davos. If they left to spend their days in Castle Clegane, formerly known as Castle Cerwyn in the North, Sandor feared they would be too far away from the bulk of their protection. However, the castle and lands gifted to him were situated upon the White Knife, leading a straight path to White Harbor. Sandor had kept the warning from Jon Snow ever in the back of his mind. If they ever needed to escape because of it, then they could take a route straight from Winterfell to Castle Clegane, where he might set up a boat on the banks in preparation for a quick journey to White Harbor. He had not done that yet, but Sandor would make plans to do it soon. The safety of Sansa and the boy depended on it.

 

 _Erryk_ , Sandor reminded himself. He had so much trouble remembering to call the boy by his first name. Sansa had chided him on more than one occasion for it so far. Erryk was his son, and he was going to have to get used to thinking of him as his own. Sandor knew the child was his, of course, but it was an alien feeling — to be a father now. He was not sure if he would ever get used to it.

 

With these thoughts in mind, Sandor left the room he shared with his wife. He closed the door quietly behind himself so as not to wake her. In the quiet of the night while everyone slept, Sandor stole away to the bedchamber of his son to see him.

 

The door was closed when he arrived, so he opened it as quietly as possible. He didn’t want to wake the boy. Instead of closing the door, Sandor left it open to prevent making accidental noise. He had seen the boy a lot during the days, but more often than not, the wet nurse or one of the servants took care of the boy’s needs. Sansa insisted on helping out, even though they often said it was not the place of a lady to dirty her hands, but Sansa pushed at the matter incessantly. She wanted to hold her son. She wanted to feed her son. She wanted to change his cloths, and she wanted to wash him. Eventually, the wet nurse as well as the servants stopped complaining or trying to stop her. They all knew it was futile. Sansa was not going to listen to a word they said when it came to her son.

 

Sandor kept his distance with the boy on most days. It wasn’t expected of him to take care of Erryk, but occasionally, Sansa would give him the boy and ask him to hold Erryk. Sandor held Erryk a lot. While he had been terrified at first of hurting the boy, the more Sandor held him, the more he got used to it. At some point, he had noticed at the holding Erryk was not something to be scared of doing. The boy liked being held in Sandor’s arms. He rarely cried, and when he looked up at Sandor, he didn’t shriek at the sight of his ruined face.

 

 _Only a babe_ , Sandor thought as he stood above Erryk’s bed, watching the boy as he slept on in silence. Only a babe would look at him and not feel fear. Erryk wasn’t conditioned to be afraid of something like Sandor’s face, an unnatural sight to most people because they had never seen it before in their lives. Erryk would grow up seeing it everyday, and it would never bother him. He would know Sandor’s face as his father’s face instead of a ruined fright to run away from. There had only been one other child like that in Sandor’s life.

 

 _Joffrey_ , he thought, his face twisting at the remembrance of the name.

 

Sandor did not want to think about Joffrey, though, not in this moment while he watched over his son. He pushed the thoughts of the dead boy from his mind until he had made his mind blank, and that was when he heard a creak by the door.

 

Sandor turned around to look, seeing Sansa standing in the doorway with a robe wrapped around her bedgown. She smiled as he looked over at her, and then she crept into the room quietly and joined Sandor by his side. Sandor turned back to the bed to look down at Erryk, and he felt Sansa’s hand reach out for his arm to grasp it loosely. Slowly, her hand slid down his arm to find his hand, and her fingers twined themselves with his.

 

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” she whispered.

 

“That’s not a word for boys,” Sandor replied below his breath, his voice coming out a low rasp.

 

Sansa laughed silently beside him, her chest shaking, though no sound came out of her mouth. “Handsome, then,” she corrected herself, and Erryk moved his lips in his sleep, turning his head to the side before falling still again.

 

“He gets that from his mother’s side,” Sandor said.

 

“I think he will look more like you,” Sansa told him softly, and she leaned her head against Sandor’s shoulder. “He has your eyes and your nose. He even has your chin.”

 

“His hair is brown,” Sandor commented offhandedly.

 

“Yes, I think that must be from my side,” Sansa answered slowly. “It looks half between Stark and Tully.”

 

Sandor fell silent again. He just stared down at Erryk while the boy dreamed of whatever it was babe’s dreamed of, but Sansa did not say anything else beside him either. It took him a moment to realize Sansa was staring at him out of the corner of his eyes, and so Sandor glanced down at Sansa’s face in the dark blue hue of the room’s darkness.

 

“Come to bed,” Sansa whispered to him, and she took Sandor by the arm by wrapping her arm firmly around his and linking them together. “You are tired,” she added softly. “I see it in your eyes.”

 

Sandor glanced one last time at the boy in his bed, but he turned back to face Sansa and nodded his head in agreement. He followed her when she led the way towards the door. Sansa was right. He was tired. He had so much on his mind lately, but somehow in a strange way looking at the little boy while he slept was peaceful for Sandor, and that was why he had come here tonight. Watching his son sleep took away most of the worry and the uncertainty from his head and left it open and blank in a way he had never truly remembered feeling before in his life.

 

As Sansa closed the door to Erryk’s bedroom behind them with a gentle push of her hand, Sandor gazed through the crack in the door until the sight was closed off from him.

 

The door shut at last, and Sandor looked away, but the sense of peace was still there as Sansa led him back to their bedchambers for the night.


	25. Stars of Silk

_xxv._

 

Months passed by, and Sansa watched Erryk learn to crawl and attempt to speak, but he never made it past babbling baby noises. It warmed her heart all the same to watch him and to help him, and she took the time to sound words out to him, hoping that one day Erryk would catch on and say his first word. According to Davos, some children said their first word at a very young age. His sons Allard, Matthos, and Steffon all spoke their first words before their tenth month. With a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eyes, Davos had recalled to her how bright his boys had been from the womb to the cradle. It helped as well that Marya took the time with Sansa to tell her all about babies and children.

 

Sansa had never had a child before, and so there were moments when she found herself frustrated and on the brink of tears if her attempts to quiet Erryk’s cries amounted to nothing. If she had nursed him, changed his cloth, or placed him in his bed for a nap but he wouldn’t sleep, she would take him into her embrace to rock him back and forth, brush his little forehead soothingly, and sing a song for him. But when no song or way of holding her son would silence his cries, Sansa hadn’t known what else to do. She had broken down in tears herself, feeling as if she was the worst mother for not being able to make her little boy happy again.

 

Marya had walked in on her on day in such a state, and she had scooped the boy out of Sansa’s arms and took him into her own. Marya had managed to cease his cries in a way that Sansa had not been able to do, and then she had placed Erryk back into Sansa’s arms and asked Sansa to sit down with her. They had talked for hours of babies and children, boys especially since that was all Marya and Davos had had together, and of all the tricks of the trade that Marya had learned in her years of mothering seven boys. “A baby can sense when you are upset,” Marya had said to Sansa with a knowing look in her eyes, “and if you feel spread thin, so does your child. He will feel it in his bones as much as you. The trick is to be as calm as still water, inside and out. No matter how bad he cries, he needs to know _you_ are the rock in the storm.”

 

Sansa had attempted it later on when Marya was not there, and though it took a bit of practicing to let go of her anxiety at being a new mother, Sansa learned fast that what Marya said to her that day was true. Whenever Sansa was calm on the inside and not thrumming from frustration or upset, Erryk did not cry forever. It would dwindle off, grow quieter at first, and then subside altogether as he stilled in her embrace. The first time she had managed it all on her own, Sansa recalled smiling so happily she laughed aloud, covered her mouth with her hand, and felt hot tears sting at the back of her eyes.

 

Those had been tears of happiness, of course, or Erryk would have begun crying all over again; Sansa had been sure of it.

 

Sandor, on the other hand, had not been playing with Erryk or trying to talk with him as Sansa was doing. He came to see Erryk, and sometimes he held the boy, but Sandor was distant with Erryk somehow. It was almost as if he was afraid of something. At least, that was how it seemed to Sansa. Either Sandor was afraid of dropping him or hurting him, or maybe some part of Sandor’s pride was afraid he might look like a fool for trying to speak with his son while his son was not yet a child capable of saying words back to him.

 

Either way, Sandor was not putting in the same efforts as Sansa with their son, and it bothered her. She did not want Sandor to miss out on fatherhood because he was too worried about his pride or making a mistake along the way. Being a parent had to allow for room with mistakes, or none of them would have made it this far.

 

One evening when Sandor came to Sansa’s chambers while she was playing with Erryk, Sansa glanced up from Erryk’s smiling face with a smile of her own while Sandor strode into the room. His eyes looked down, though, to her lap. One look at her with the baby, and he froze in the doorway. Sandor seemed to be debating something in his head about whether he wanted to stay or leave.

 

When he abruptly turned around without a word, Sansa called out to him.

 

“Sandor,” she said, a teasing and light quality to her voice. “Please, stay.”

 

Sandor froze a second time, only this time it was for a much different reason. She knew he was not unhappy with being a father. Sansa could see the silent light of joy behind his eyes whenever he held Erryk in his arms, but Sandor was afraid of something.

 

Sometimes, Sansa thought, she was afraid Sandor feared he would be a horrible father to Erryk, and so he was trying to keep his distance. But that was not going to help, and it wasn’t going to help him get to know his son either. Maybe Erryk was too young to have hobbies and interests and lessons yet, but if Sandor didn’t grow a bond with him now, then things were going to be strained between them when Erryk got older.

 

Sansa did not want that. She did not want that for either of them.

 

Sansa watched from her chair as Sandor’s back rose and fell with a deep breath he had drawn inward. Silently, Sandor turned back around to face her. He had a strange expression upon his face, one Sansa could not read, and his forehead was drawn tight. However, despite all of that, Sandor crossed the distance and took a seat in the chair set a little bit in front of Sansa to her right.

 

It was an old chair, and it creaked as he sat down in it.

 

“Here,” Sansa said, standing up from her seat. She took two steps to Sandor, and ignored the look of alarm on his face as she placed Erryk down towards Sandor’s arms. He had no choice but to take the child from her grasp, and once Erryk was settled safely in his father’s arms, Sansa held out the toy to Sandor as well with a small smile on her face.

 

Sandor looked up at her, narrowing his eyes. Though it was not in displeasure, but more of confusion at what she expected him to do with the toy.

 

Sansa dangled it in front of him. It was a wooden pole with strings on it. Down at the bottom of each piece of string, there hung large and brilliant silver stars made out of starchy, thick material covered in a fine layer of silver silk. Each star held a white outline of cloth to compliment the silver coloring in the center. She put the stars above his bed at night sometimes because Erryk loved to fall asleep beneath them, but not without tiring himself out first by trying to reach them.

 

The stars were big enough that if he ever got a hold of them to chew on them, he couldn’t swallow them or even get them but a quarter of the way into his mouth. Sansa had asked for them to make the stars especially big for that purpose. The last thing she wanted was for Erryk to get a hold of something too small and put it in his mouth, choking on it. It was one of her biggest fears because Erryk liked to put everything he could get his hands on into his mouth.

 

“You hold it,” Sansa instructed Sandor, and she took one of his hands and placed the pole in his palm, closing his fingers around it with her hand, “and then you dangle it above his face—like this.”

 

Sansa demonstrated it by taking Sandor’s hand gently by the wrist and raising it high enough above Erryk’s head. Then, she used a careful motion to shake the pole back and forth, which in turn caused all of the big stars to shake as well.

 

Below them, Erryk laughed with a gurgle and reached out to try and grab one of the stars.

 

When Sansa let go of his wrist, though, Sandor did not move it on his own. The stars slowed their swinging, and Sansa glanced down at Sandor as he looked up at her.

 

“You expect me to do this?” he asked roughly, not at all sounding pleased about it.

 

Sansa frowned, and she swallowed past a nervous catch building up within her throat. “I would hope you would want to play with your son,” she told him. “Is there shame in that? There is no one here but you and me.” Slowly, Sansa cast her gaze down at their boy. “And Erryk,” she added in a soft voice. “There is no one to see you but us, and I can tell you it would make both of us very happy and we would think no less of you for it.”

 

Sandor had lowered his gaze back to Erryk when Sansa glanced up at him again. All she wanted was for Sandor to take the time to play with Erryk. Sansa did not want him to wait until Erryk was older, so he could teach Erryk how to fight, to defend himself in one, how to hunt, and all of those other things that boys were supposed to learn from their fathers without having taken the time in the now, while Erryk was still a baby, to simply sit here with Erryk in his lap and dangle a toy in front of their son’s face to make him smile and reach up for it, opening and closing his hands as he tried to grab for something out of his reach.

 

There was more to being a parent than just teaching the necessities of life. Sansa wanted Sandor to learn that, and she wanted him to learn it quickly. Sandor was a father, and that meant more than lessons.

 

Erryk needed this from him now.

 

It seemed as if the longest time passed them by without Sandor doing anything. Erryk became impatient in his lap, twisting and beginning a whine at the back of his throat like he was about to cry, when Sandor sighed at last. Sandor steeled his face as he lifted up the stars above Erryk’s head, and the whine stretched out into a laugh instead, and then a high-pitched giggle as both of his arms rose upward to reach it.

 

Sansa felt a smile spread across her face as she moved to sit back down. She had been tired lately. If she heard Erryk crying in the middle of the night, Sansa often took care of it herself instead of calling for the wet nurse. She wanted Erryk to know without a doubt as a baby who his mother was, even if that meant defying some of the traditional boundaries placed upon those who were high-born, such as herself.

 

She watched as Sandor lifted the stars higher when Erryk realized he could roll over onto his side and reach higher, his little eyes growing ever wider at his new discovery. Sansa laughed aloud, bring her hand to her mouth. She had not seen Erryk do such a thing yet.

 

“Look at him,” Sansa said quickly, and she pointed at Erryk’s determined face as his tongue stuck out between his lips, his hands reaching upward as they opened and closed over and over again. “He is learning so fast . . . ”

 

Sandor huffed. “He will not grab them from me,” he said, and Sansa looked up at Sandor’s face.

 

Sandor was concentrating solely on Erryk, though. He appeared to be enjoying himself as he sat there and played with Erryk. Sansa watched them both with an ever present smile on her face. Sandor would dangle the stars lower as if to tease Erryk with them, and then he would pull them upward quickly to prevent his son from grabbing them and winning the game between them. Erryk burst into giggles one time, and then he suddenly made a little squeaky growl at one point, which surprised both of them.

 

Sandor raised his eyes to hers, a look of shock in them at Erryk’s little growl, and Sansa could not help it. She burst into laughter at the expression she saw there on Sandor’s face. Sandor ended up shaking his head, but he resumed playing with Erryk, and it was all she could have hoped for and more.

 

“See, now,” Sansa finally said to him when she had calmed down from laughing so hard her sides were hurting, “was that so hard?”

 

Sandor was quiet at first, and then he answered her simply.

 

“No,” he said, and she smiled at his answer.


	26. Discord and Celebration

_xxvi._

 

As the months crept by, Sandor kept his eyes on the horizon every morning that he could find himself outside on the parapet of Winterfell’s walls. If Jon Snow’s army with the Dragon Queen meant to head beyond Winterfell and to the lands beyond the Wall, he assumed he would see them in the skies on their dragons or marching across the snows that surrounded the castle in a blanket of white. Each morning, though, Sandor saw nothing but slate grey clouds. The gloom of winter hung over the land, and it made him wish for the summer. Summer was far from its time, though. This was the time of winter, a time for battle.

 

Battles he had given up on long ago, refusing anymore to take part in any king or queen’s army. He was lucky Lord Rickon Stark and Jon Snow did not decide to demand his presence with the southern army that built itself beneath the Dragon Queen’s banners. They could have sent him south to stay, and while the weather had been warmer, the air about the people had been colder. Sandor had wanted no part in their war, and they had granted his wish. Instead, Jon had sent him back North to help aid the side of a boy lord in his stead. In truth, Sandor viewed it as being with his son and Sansa. He knew that was the reason hidden beneath the surface. Jon had not just alluded to it. He was clear of his reasons.

 

In the midst of a war right on their borders, Sandor felt ill at ease even within the walls of Winterfell.

 

He had gone days before to check the preparations for an escape at the castle that was given to him. It was down the river, connecting as a trade route with White Harbor. They had a small ship prepared on the docks with preserved provisions stocked aboard, and he had guards staying at the castle to keep an eye on things while he was in Winterfell. From time to time, Sandor rode out with a group of retainers to check on it and make sure it was safe. There might come a day when they would need it, and Sandor meant to take no chances with the survival of his family.

 

Sandor would do everything within his power to ensure their survival, even if it meant giving up his own. He hoped it never came to that, but these days, it was hard to tell what might befall them if the air grew any colder and the snow fell any harder and a long winter came to Winterfell from beyond the Wall. Sandor had never counted himself a superstitious man, but he had begun to believe in the threat Jon Snow spoke of more than he ever had before, and he took it as a heavy burden each morning that he walked outside and ascended the parapets to watch the skies and the lands beyond them.

 

On this particular day, Sandor chose to stay inside. They were preparing a feast in the Great Hall, though it was for no particular celebration. Today was no one’s name day, but he wasn’t going to question the reason for it. Whatever brought up the hopes of the people and kept them less inclined to worry would be a good thing.

 

Sandor walked until he reached Erryk’s bedchambers inside of the keep, excused the woman who was watching him, and closed the door behind her. Sometimes, when Sansa wasn’t looking, he took to spending time alone with Erryk. It was not easy for him to grow used to the idea of having a son, but he was lucky in that he rarely if ever had to deal with the boy crying or becoming upset. It wasn’t a part of his duty to keep the boy cleaned and fed, but there were times when he helped if it was Sansa taking care of Erryk. Most of the time, the wet nurse took care of the boy. Erryk was not yet one.

 

Sandor put his hands on the bed frame. He stared down at the boy, who looked up at him. Erryk made a funny gurgling noise, twisting his head to the side, and Sandor bent over to take the boy into his arms. He was heavy despite looking so small, but his weight was nothing to Sandor. Erryk also liked being in Sandor’s embrace, and Sandor could only remember one face that ever looked at him like that.

 

 _Joffrey_ , he thought, the corner of his ruined mouth twitching at the memory.

 

He was caught halfway between unhappiness and resentment. Joffrey had been a sweet and normal babe, just like Erryk, but he had grown into something worse. Joffrey had the misfortune of Cersei Lannister for a mother, though she had been as bad in her earlier days either. The turn of time had shown that Joffrey’s cruelty won out over the rest of him, and there were moments when Sandor wondered if that had been his fault. He had been put to the child’s side from the moment the boy was born, shifting his loyalty from Cersei to Joffrey, and he feared his part in the boy’s souring.

 

He also feared he might commit that mistake again. Erryk was pure to the world, a babe as Joffrey had once been, but influence was everything in this world. It broke men and women alike, changed them, and twisted them beyond relief and recognition.

 

He feared what might become of Erryk with a father like him.

 

Erryk remained quiet in his arms, chewing on a toy Sansa had given to him. The boy was unaware of Sandor’s thoughts, and he went about his own business as if he was still lying in his bed. Sandor went to put him back, and the boy began to cry. Turning around to look at the door, Sandor wondered how far the wet nurse had gone. If the boy was hungry again, she better not have gone far.

 

He stalked over to the door, opened it, and looked into the hallway beyond. He glanced both ways, but saw no one in sight. Turning back into the room, Sandor thought of leaving the boy to find the woman, but he was afraid of leaving Erryk alone. The boy was too young to be left alone like that, and if he was crying, that made it much worse.

 

Not knowing what to do, Sandor left the door open but made his way back to the bed. He tried with picking the boy back up, but that only seemed to intensify his cries. They had become loud, shrieking wails, filling up the room. Sandor tried everything he could think of, but he only grew more agitated with each moment. He didn’t know what would hush the child. When everything he had tried failed him, Sandor lost his temper.

 

“Would you _hush_ ,” he finally shouted, just as the door was opened behind him, and Sandor turned around in time to see Sansa’s shocked face staring back.

 

She hurried to his side, carefully removing Erryk from his embrace, and then her worried expression became ire as she turned it upon Sandor.

 

“What is wrong with you?” she asked, cradling the boy to her breast. Sandor felt the heat come to his face. He was ashamed of his actions, even if he didn’t want to admit it out loud. Sandor watched in silence as Sansa took the boy over to the other side of the room, gently rocking him in her arms and singing to him in a soft voice as she undid her blouse.

 

Sandor meant to look away out of modesty for mother and child, but he turned his head for only a moment. When he looked back, Sansa had one breast partially bared and Erryk’s head blocked the rest of it from sight. Sansa raised her eyes to his, and Sandor refused to look away and appear beaten down.

 

“Where is his nurse?” Sansa asked this time, though her tone was calmer.

 

“I sent her away,” he admitted. He paused, but then he continued. “I wanted to be alone with him.”

 

Sansa looked back down at Erryk in her arms. “Well,” she said, “that is not how you treat him when you are alone with him.”

 

Sandor felt his jaw clench. “I am not good with these things.”

 

It took a lot to just to admit that one thing. Sansa gazed up again, her expression softening. “Most men are not accustomed to crying babies,” Sansa added, “but I know.”

 

Sandor shifted his weight to his other foot. “I did not know he was hungry.”

 

A little laugh bubbled up in Sansa’s throat, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She shook her head. “You would have not been able to feed him.”

 

Sandor was quiet, watching her and the babe. Even from where he stood across from Sansa, he could see the boy’s eyes were closed in peace. “Will he be at the feast with us?” he asked in a low voice.

 

“No,” Sansa answered him as she gazed down at Erryk. Her fingers brushed his baby fine hair off of his forehead. “I will have his nurse put him down to sleep.”

 

He briskly nodded his head. Sandor saw no point in the boy going, but he didn’t know what Sansa would choose to do. She had been very attached to Erryk since his birth. Sometimes, Sandor thought, she preferred the boy over him. It was an irrational thought, but one he couldn’t escape.

 

Sandor left the room without another word, and Sansa did not try to stop him. On his way down the hall, he crossed paths the wet nurse he had dismissed from Erryk’s room earlier. He did not want to change for the feast, but he knew Sansa would most likely wear her best. As of late, Sansa had not been given much of an opportunity to dress into her finest clothes.

 

Even in Pentos, she had loved her cloths and dresses.

 

Grudgingly, Sandor went to his quarters and began to search through his clothes for something suitable to wear to the feast. He assumed Sansa would wear blue or grey. Blue was one of her favorite colors, but grey was one of the colors of her house. Sandor hated the colors of his house. He never cared for their association, and yellow was too bright. He settled on a black doublet with matching trousers and boots. Black was a simple color, and he didn’t have to think about it.

 

As evening drew on, he made his way to the Great Hall. Everything was not yet finished for the meal, but Lord Rickon was there—and playing at the head table with his utensils by carving little engravings into the wood. Sandor assumed he would be seated at the head table with Sansa beside Rickon, and he was right. As soon as Rickon looked up and spotted him, he beamed at Sandor and dropped his knife to the table in a clatter.

 

“Lord Clegane,” Rickon shouted happily, and Sandor made sure to bow his head at the greeting as he approached.

 

He stopped at the foot of the table and looked up at Rickon. The table was raised on a dais, setting it above even Sandor’s height.

 

“My lord,” he said.

 

“Sit with me,” Rickon told him. “I’m bored.”

 

“The feast hasn’t even started,” Sandor replied, and he walked around the table to the steps on the side, ascending them and walking over to the first chair on the right of Rickon.

 

Rickon sighed deeply. “That’s why I’m bored,” the boy said. Then, he turned to Sandor. “Lord Davos is joining us tonight with his wife, Marya, and daughter, Lady Shireen Baratheon.”

 

Sandor would never get used to the idea of a former smuggler becoming the new father to a Baratheon orphan. “Will they sit with us?”

 

“No,” Rickon said, sounding a little sad over it, “they have to sit in the crowd.”

 

“You don’t sound happy about that,” Sandor observed.

 

“I’m not,” Rickon admitted, and he had picked up his knife again, carving at the wood more idly this time. The boy looked like he had something on his mind, but Sandor chose not to bother him about it. He didn’t much care for involving himself in other’s business, and so he kept his mouth shut unless Rickon spoke to him or asked him a question. Before he knew it, more people were piling into the Great Hall, and more food was being brought out on huge platters.

 

Sansa arrived at the doors with Lord Davos and Marya, and she was dressed in a color Sandor never expected to see her in—yellow, bright as sunlight, and fine instead of too strong. It was pale, not too vibrant, but the color looked beautiful on her with her auburn hair and blue eyes. She looked up to see him seated at the table and smiled at him. Lord Davos departed from his wife long enough to escort Sansa to the steps of the dais, and then he and Marya came around to the front of the table to bow their heads at Rickon. They both smiled, though they smiled sadly.

 

“We are sorry Lady Shireen could not make it tonight,” Lord Davos said. “She is sick and bedridden for now. It’s not bad, but we were afraid to take her out into the cold in her condition.”

 

As he said this to Rickon, Sandor looked over at Sansa as she took her seat beside him.

 

“You chose an . . . interesting color this evening,” Sandor said below his breath.

 

Sansa smiled softly. “Do you like it?” she asked.

 

He cut his eyes at her. “Every color suits you,” he told her, and though he meant it as a favor, it came out sounding bored.

 

Sansa’s smile increased, though, as she looked forward into the crowd. “Now,” she chided him, “don’t burst into song over your joy.”

 

Sandor snorted at her reply, the corner of his mouth curling upward.

 

Lord Davos and Marya were walking away from the head table, and Rickon was stabbing the wood with more fervor.

 

Sansa looked over with concern on her face. “My lord,” she told Rickon, “you’ll dull your knife.”

 

Rickon sighed heavily and stabbed the knife down one final time, leaving it there as he let go of it. Sansa glanced away, and Sandor reached under the table to her side, finding her hand and clasping it with his own. Sansa felt tense to his touch, but she softened beside him. He ran his thumb over her knuckles, watching out of the corner of his eyes as a little breath escaped her lips.

 

 _Food_ , he thought. _We’re here for food_.

 

The feast was fulfilling and hearty, but the time in the Great Hall seemed to drag on for Sandor longer than it should have. Many of the men and women became drunk on wine, and Sandor grew uncomfortable with it ever since he had given up the drink for the sake of Sansa and the baby. Sandor knew wine only made his tempers worse, and he had used it too often in the past to drown himself in his problems instead of facing them. For Sansa and Erryk, he had told himself he would do better, and he meant to follow through with it.

 

In the middle of the all the bawdy behavior, laughter, and coarse language, there came a loud voice, drunk and above the rest, “But at least your cloth is grey and not your face! Some are not born with beauty!” It was met with round of laughter instead of disdain, though silence fell upon some nearby to the group.

 

Sandor ignored it, but the young lord beside him did not.

 

Rickon picked up his knife and stabbed it down into the table with such a force from his small hand that it sent the whole trestle table rocking. Every plate, bowl, spoon, fork, knife, and goblet clattered in unison, causing a silence to fall over the entire crowd before their feet as most eyes looked forward to their table.

 

“She is not _ugly_ ,” Rickon snapped all of a sudden into the deafening silence. His eyes shot daggers at the man who had said it. Though he was young and small for his age, Rickon had a reputation preceding him in Winterfell as the Cannibal Lord. He had spent years with the wildlings on the island of Skagos, but Rickon never made comment about the rumors of cannibalism on the island. Lord Davos never commented upon it either. It remained, for the most part, a mystery.

 

The mystery was what drove a measure of fear and obedience into the hearts of many of the residents when it came to Rickon and his wild tempers. He was well-loved in Winterfell, but with that massive and growling direwolf often at his side, people were careful with the young lord.

 

The man who had spoken out of turn raised his eyes to Lord Rickon. He looked terrified, even though Rickon’s direwolf was not in the Great Hall with them at this moment. Sandor recognized the young man as one of the lesser sons of one of the lords, but that wasn’t going to give him a pass in Rickon’s eyes.

 

“I . . . I am sorry, my lord,” he stuttered. “I did not mean to offend—”

 

“You _have_ offended,” Rickon asserted firmly.

 

“Apologies, my lord—”

 

Rickon pulled the knife from the table, and in his rage he threw it. The boy had a precise arm. The knife struck the man clean below the shoulder. The man started to scream.

 

“Someone get him a maester!” a voice shouted. “Quick!”

 

There was silence from those in the Great Hall as he was dragged off, and Rickon returned to his food as if nothing had happened. He was still angry, though. The feeling permeated off of the boy as he tore into his meat and ignored the scene he had caused himself.

 

Sansa laid her had against Sandor’s arm. “My lord,” she said loudly, and at first, Sandor thought she was talking to him, but he realized she was speaking to her brother. “I am feeling weary. May we retire for the night from the feast? Will you be all right on your own?”

 

Rickon glanced over at her. He looked perturbed by her question, and then he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t care,” he said, sounding more like his age than his title.

 

Sansa stood from the table, looking down at Sandor. “Come, my lord,” she told him, and Sandor rose to join her.

 

Together, they walked out of the Great Hall. It was quiet throughout the rest of the keep, and for a time, they made their journey in silence. He wasn’t bothered by Rickon’s display in the Great Hall, but Sandor had a feeling it was bothering Sansa.

 

“That was not very becoming of him,” Sansa finally said, though she spoke in a low voice as they walked, her arm entwined with his.

 

“No,” Sandor agreed, glancing out of the corner of his eyes at Sansa, “but who would blame him? The boy spoke ill of his lady.”

 

Sansa lifted up her chin, trying to fight off a smile. “That is not an appropriate—”

 

Sandor stopped in the middle of walking. He turned to face Sansa, taking her by the waist with his hands, and backed her into the wall. Off to the left, the light of a torch flickered with a glow upon the side of her face. It highlighted the streaks of lighter red within her hair.

 

He captured her lips with a kiss because it was not appropriate. They were in a hallway, and no doubt Sansa would say something about it, but he didn’t care about that either. Sometimes she was too concerned with propriety, and it drove him mad.

 

She froze at first as if she might push him away in protest, but Sandor felt it as she fell slack in his arms, and she parted her lips slowly to kiss him back. She had the taste of wine on her lips, an intoxicating taste he had not had for so long. He had even avoided it tonight, settling on base water as his drink, yet on her lips it tasted even better than from a glass.

 

When he pulled away from her mouth, Sansa was breathing heavily. He raised his hand close to her face, brushing the loose hair that was not bound up away from her temple.

 

“I’d knife the man who spoke ill of you,” Sandor murmured, “if I didn’t kill him first.”

 

Sansa lifted her mouth closer to his. “You would kill a man for me?” she asked.

 

“Kill him, yes,” Sandor said further, “or do even worse.”

 

Sansa reached up to kiss him again, cupping the back of his head with her hand. While the first kiss had been soft and slow, this one was heated and passionate, and he was beginning to wish she wasn’t covered head to toe in a long gown. He heard giggling down the hallway, and Sansa broke the kiss abruptly, turning her head from his as she pressed her hand to his chest.

 

Sandor looked down the hall, but he saw nothing in the dark. It was most likely just drunken fools from the feast.

 

When he looked back at Sansa, she was staring down the hallway to their right with her mouth open and her breath coming out of it heavily. She glanced back to Sandor, and her hand slipped upward across his chest over the cloth that kept them separate from each other.

 

“We should find a room, my lord,” she breathed out, her eyes shining in the dark under the torchlight.

 

Sandor stared at Sansa for a moment longer before pulling away from her, and then he took her gently by the arm and pulled her close to him. They stood in the middle of the hallway together, both filled with impure thoughts.

 

“Quick, then,” he said, his voice a low rasp. “Let us find a room before I ravage you here.”


	27. Featherbed for Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author’s Note:** I’ll admit this is a shameless sexy smut chapter with some couple bonding moments and sweetness. It's a direct continuation of the last chapter (for those of you who said I left you hanging! lol). Hopefully, you’ll either end up fanning yourself to cool down or rot your teeth out because of these two saccharine lovebirds. And hey, if it’s both, even better! ;)

_xxvii._

 

Sansa hurried past the threshold into the room before Sandor, letting go of his hand as she stepped inside, but she paused as she let out a little gasp at the sight before her. It was a beautiful room with dark wooden walls instead of stone, and a four-poster canopy bed sat off to the right wall with deep red covers that shone like silk in the firelight. A fire burned low in the coals, and it cast the walls under a soft red glow flecked with golden light. There were matching rugs on the floor of a darker color than the bed sheets. To her eyes, they were the color of wine. Sansa glanced over the room, drinking in the whole sight with her eyes. She had no idea where exactly in the castle this room was, who it might have belonged to, or if it belonged to anybody at all. Perhaps it was no one’s room. They kept even the guest chambers prepared daily in case of sudden arrivals or visits, but this room looked too grand to be a guest chamber, and yet she knew it was not her mother and father’s old room or Rickon’s bedchamber.

 

The door was barred behind her with the scrape of metal against wood. Sansa whirled around at the sound to look for Sandor. He had been so far away from her, but suddenly, he was upon her, and his warmth chased away the cold as his breath came close to her lips. He wrapped one strong arm around her waist and pulled her closer, their chests pressed tight in what felt like so small a space. For one brief moment as he stared back at her, Sansa smelled the sharp tang of metal on the air—and she tasted it on the back of her tongue as she breathed in deep. It was a heady scent. Sandor always smelled so powerful, like strength, bloody steel, and weatherworn armor.

 

When they kissed each other again, it was rough press of his mouth to hers and there was no gentleness in the touch. Sandor knew gentleness. He had learned it with her, and when she had become more comfortable with telling him what she liked, he grew more knowledgeable in how to tend to her body. They had not been intimate together since their time in the bathtub, though, which had proved to be too much for Sansa too soon after having the baby. Even though it had been almost two months after his birth, her body had not been ready for such contact. She had paid the price in the weeks that had come, abstaining from encouraging him again so soon.

 

He had not complained about it. Sandor had not grown angry, nor had he tried to push himself onto her at any time. He had lain with her peacefully in bed, one of his strong arms thrown over her body in a protective gesture each night, and fallen asleep by her side with his face buried in her hair, breathing deeply. Each night, she had fallen asleep to the rhythm of his chest moving, in and out, in and out, against her back. Each night, it had lulled her to sleep.

 

It had been so long since they had done anything more than that.

 

His mouth was urgent, and his hands grasped her sides with an iron grip. Sansa reached up to cup his face with both of her hands as she kissed him back, trying to regain some of the control between them lest he overpower her completely. In their haste to touch and kiss and feel each other, Sansa blindly followed Sandor’s steps as they led her backwards to the bed. The back of her knees hit the mattress edge, and they threatened to buckle beneath her at the impact. Sandor caught her deftly, preventing a fall, and slowed his assault upon her mouth. He pulled back, giving them each a moment to breathe, and then he placed a kiss so gentle on her lips. When he pulled away once more, they stood there in the silence.

 

His hands moved from their placement on her waist up to her chest, slower than before, and pulled at the laces of her dress. Their mouths remained separated long enough for Sansa to look down, too, and help him unlace the ribbons. As the last one fell loose, Sansa raised her chin as she felt the waves of heat from the fireplace dance upon her naked skin and warm it. It was more than that, though. It was his touch, too, as she allowed Sandor’s hands to pull her dress further down, revealing the curves of each breast in the low burning light. With careful in each movement, she slipped one arm at a time out of her sleeves. When she was done, Sandor placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around so that she was facing the bed with her back to him.

 

She felt him pull the ribbons loose on the back of her dress as well, curling one finger in the topmost loops and tugging outward with his hand. Once he reached the bottom, Sandor slipped the gown completely off of her body and left her standing in nothing more than her smallclothes before him. His fingers grasped the sides of those as well, pushing them down over her hips with a slowness that brought a burning sensation to her chest. It coursed downward to her abdomen, and she felt him pull back from her, leaving her bare and devoid of his warmth.

 

Sansa heard him pulling out of his clothes, and she wondered if she should help him when a wicked idea entered into her mind. It was very unlike her, but after everything they had been through together so far, it was not as shocking as it could have been. With the warmth pooling into her belly, she placed her palms on the foot of the bed and lifted herself onto the mattress, stepping out of her fallen smallclothes and gown left lying in a pile on the floor below.

 

She crawled onto the bed with a purposeful slowness, her face burning hot with both excitement and an ounce of shame as she realized what he had a full view of from his vantage point at the edge of the bed. The rustling sound of his clothes paused for just a moment, and Sansa arched her back before glancing over her shoulder at him.

 

Sandor stood there at the end of the bed, holding his loose tunic and doublet in both of his hands as he stared open-mouthed at her. There was a mixture of both shock and intense heat in the power of his gaze, and he closed his jaw, throwing his clothes aside as he reached for his belt to pull it loose. Sansa looked forward again, her cheeks warming at the memory of his expression, and crawled closer to the pillows with languid slides of each knee and palm against the smooth red sheets. Once she reached them, she sat upright on her knees with her back still to Sandor. She glanced over her shoulder at him, a coy look in her eyes as she saw him put one of his knees onto the bed to climb it.

 

The mattress sank beneath his weight, and as he drew closer to join her, a tingle passed through Sansa’s nerves in anticipation. Goose bumps rose along her arms and the back of her neck. She felt Sandor’s warmth before he even reached out to touch her, his body hovering just behind hers and emanating heat. Sansa felt his hand graze her shoulder, and she leaned into Sandor, finding him naked behind her. The touch of her bare body to his aroused her further, and she reached back to place her hands upon his thighs as his hands ran slowly down her arms.

 

He touched her body with smooth, languorous strokes of his calloused fingers. Gathering her hair with one of his hands, he pulled it away from her neck and dipped down low to place his mouth against her skin there, kissing her with a gentleness that belied his often fearsome nature. Sansa lost herself in his touches and his kisses until she could take no more, and she turned around in his arms to settle herself onto his lap, wrapping her legs on either side of his body. Her arms went around his shoulders, and she reached forward to catch his lips with hers and kiss him deeply. The flames of the fire danced across the walls before she closed her eyes, crackling softly in the background.

 

Sandor moved his hand between her legs to touch her, to pleasure her, and Sansa rocked her hips against his hand as she pulled away from his kiss. She parted her lips, breathing heavily through her open mouth against Sandor’s lips and feeling the heat of her own breath wash over her skin as it filled what little space there was between them. His other hand pressed on her back, holding her close to him, though he slid it around to her chest to gently grasp her breast, feeling her and caressing the sensitive flesh. He lowered his head, kissing the curve of Sansa’s collarbone, and then trailed his lips further down to the dip between her breasts.

 

Sansa pressed her hand into his chest, urging him down towards the bed. Sandor gazed up at her, eyes burning with some kind of molten desire, but he obeyed the guidance of her hand and laid himself back upon the silken sheets. His hands found a placement on her hips, kneading his thumbs into her natural indentions. Sansa straddled his hips, rising up onto her knees as she took his firm manhood into her hand, stroking it long and slow, before she positioned herself above him just right and kept eye contact with Sandor as she lowered herself onto his cock. Her body was in every way ready and accepting of him, hot and wet and willing as she sunk down onto his length and he filled her whole.

 

Remaining upright upon him, Sansa placed one of her hands flat against his firm stomach and the other upon the bed, and she rode him slowly with the firelight to her face and body, covering her in a warm glow. Sandor kept his piercing eyes on her the entire time, never leaving her face or her body. His hands remained on her hips at first, but soon, they grew adventurous and wandered over her body, touching belly, curves, and breasts, sliding everywhere and filling her with an even greater want than before. He let her choose the pace between them, holding back the instinct to thrust upward and overturn her rhythm.

 

When she quickened her pace, though, reaching up to intertwine her fingers with his hand as he cupped her breast in his palm, Sandor could no longer hold back. He thrust his hips upward to meet her, and she sunk down all the way onto him with hard plunges that filled her up in a way she had not felt in so long. She felt the warmth of the fire, and suddenly, Sansa remembered the heat of the Pentoshi sun beating through the windows as she lounged in a hot bath, even as the cold breeze blew in through the sheer curtains. The heat of the fire felt like that sun upon her skin again, and she rode him harder. Even as Sandor gripped her breast more firmly in his grasp as he groaned aloud against his release, Sansa did not stop. Sweat trickled down her skin, and she leaned forward above him, changing her angle to give her better leverage to move faster until she could _feel_ him so differently inside of her that every muscle pulsed with delicious agony.

 

Sansa did not reach it, though, not before Sandor was softening beneath her, and she stopped her motions, even though she did not want to stop just yet. Sansa pulled back just enough to free herself of him, and then she laid her body against his. She rested her head against his chest and her cheek against his bare skin, and Sandor’s strong arms came around her body to envelope her in a tender hug. His arms were huge, big enough to kill a man, but to her they were the safest place in the world.

 

Sansa rested like that in his arms for quite some time, gulping in air as she tried to regain control over her body. When her breathing had returned to its normal tempo, a realization suddenly struck Sansa of the room they were in and its purpose.

 

She lifted her head from Sandor’s chest to look down at him with large eyes, her hands pressed against his shoulders as she regarded him from above. “This room is meant for the King and Queen whenever they come to visit Winterfell,” Sansa blurted out.

 

Sandor stared at her at first, and then a deep, rumbling laugh filled his chest. It shook beneath her, his face alight with amusement. “The things you say when you are on top of me,” Sandor mused aloud, and at his mild scolding, Sansa felt a slight heat rise to her cheeks.

 

“It’s true,” Sansa said, feeling the need to defend herself.

 

Sandor’s eyes gleamed bright in the warmth of the fire. “I never said it was not.”

 

Sansa stared back at Sandor, feeling her embarrassment fade. “We made love on the sheets that were made for a king,” she whispered, the corner of her mouth turning upright into a small smile. It seemed devious somehow, but Sansa liked the feeling it gave her.

 

“Did we now?” Sandor asked her, and he pushed himself upright onto the bed, bringing her with him. When they were both sitting up with her still straddling his lap, Sandor pulled her close to capture her lips with his half ruined mouth, but nothing had ever tasted half so sweet to Sansa as this.

 

Sansa felt him hardening against her already, and she reached down to grasp his erection with her hand. His supple skin was hot and wet and slightly sticky, but her fingers stroked him all the same until Sandor growled low in his throat, and he gently pushed her away from him to guide her out of his lap.

 

Sansa pulled back from his mouth to look at him in puzzlement, but Sandor took her by the hips and turned her around until she was sitting with her back was to him.

 

“Get on your knees,” he instructed her in a deeply gruff voice, and Sansa found herself aroused by it, so she followed his demands and rested her forearms and elbows against the mattress, her knees propped upon the bed to raise her lower body upward to him.

 

She felt Sandor’s hand on her inner knees, first one and then the other, soft and careful with her as he urged her to spread them further. When she had taken the proper position, she felt vulnerable and bare, but she trusted him. In her fists the sheets bunched between fingers laced with nervous anticipation, and then Sansa felt one of Sandor’s hands flat against her lower back and the tip of his manhood grazing between her legs against the sensitive flesh. She lowered her face to the sheets, biting on her lower lip as Sandor continued to tease her and stroke her. A soft moan echoed quietly in the back of her throat, and once he heard that, Sansa felt Sandor sink his length inside of her, filling her whole.

 

Sansa gasped against the sheets, feeling her hot breath as it washed over her face. He was still for a moment, and then she felt his hands grasp her hips, and before she knew what to prepare herself for, Sandor thrust hard and deep into her, and Sansa cried out loudly at the sudden shock of pleasure it caused her to feel it as he stroked some deep, unknown part of her at this angle upon the bed.

 

Instinctively, her back arched low and her hips rose higher. When Sandor thrust into her again, she felt it stronger than before, and Sansa could not stop the cry of absolute bliss that escaped her lips. Her fingers curled tighter into the sheets, and Sandor held fast onto her hips as he began a hard and quick pace inside of her. Sansa felt every moan and sound of pleasure profoundly take her over until she was singing a very different type of song for Sandor, burying her face against the bed and trying to muffle the loudest of her very unladylike cries as he sank into her over and over and over again. Her body hit its release too soon, and she was overcome with tremors, a quaver that began in her belly but stretched from head to toe across the expanse of her body as a spark of light that wasn’t real flashed before her closed eyes.

 

Sandor was not so ready to quit, though, and he continued to thrust into her with wild abandon until Sansa could barely take anymore sensation. Every climax he brought her made her body more sensitive to touch. She had lost count of them, and her muscles were tired from trembling over and over again. Sandor, noticing this change in her, quickened his pace until his own release was upon him, and Sansa felt him pull out suddenly as hot spurts of his seed landed on the skin of her bottom and her lower back. Sansa was not sure why he had pulled out when they had not bothered to do so earlier. It would hardly make a difference now, she thought briefly as her eyes fell to a close. If the gods were to grant them a second child, then it would come.

 

She lowered herself to her side upon the bed, and she lay there alone for only a moment before Sandor was behind her, his arm coming around her waist to pull her close. She let out a deep sigh, nestling into his embrace. Sansa felt so tired, so very tired, but it was a pleasant and fulfilling tiredness brought on by the utmost gratification. She wanted to fall asleep in Sandor’s arms, even if this was not their own personal quarters. Sansa could hardly bring herself to care. Her mind sailed on bliss into a quiet darkness, and her body thrummed with the oddest sensation of relief.

 

Sansa felt fingers graze against her cheek, pulling hair out of her face. They were rough fingers with scratchy pads running over her smooth skin, a stark contrast to each other, but she was at peace. She had never before considered coupling in that manner with Sandor. It had seemed so animalistic and indecent to her in the past, a dog’s position, not one for people, but now that she had experienced it for herself, she was not so sure she had ever felt anything better than that with him before.

 

As a content sigh left her lips, Sansa felt the soft rumble of Sandor’s chest against her back. “Did you like that?” he asked her, and Sansa let out another deep sigh.

 

“Yes,” she murmured, “I liked it very much.”

 

His fingers grazed against her face again as if pulling away more hair, but it felt as though he were only touching her for the sake of touching her. “Good,” Sandor answered back, his deep voice reverberating in the air between them.

 

“I should like to sleep now,” Sansa whispered, her voice barely audible to herself despite the silence. She felt another chuckle resonate deep within Sandor’s chest.

 

He had risen slightly above her. “Go to sleep, then,” he said from somewhere in the air next to her ear, and then the warmth of his lips pressed against her cheek.

 

Those same rough, calloused fingers were the last thing Sansa remembered, stroking her cheek, before she fell in a deep, dreamless sleep in a soft featherbed made for kings and queens—with silken sheets and lush red tapestries hanging low upon the four posters of the bed. The fire roared with warmth even as they remained uncovered, and here, in this room, the hot springs of Winterfell coursed deep throughout the tunnels within its walls.


	28. When the Cold Winds Blow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Notes:** I have the end of this story all outlined and detailed, and after this chapter, there will only be three more chapters and it will be done! Thank you all for sticking with this story for so long, and I'll be very happy when it reaches its final conclusion.

_xxviii._

 

Jon could hear the drums beating in the distance somewhere behind him in their ranks. _Boom doom-doom-doom_. _Boom doom-doom-doom_. The hollow echoes sounded all around him, adding a deeper chill to his bones where the cold itself had not yet reached. A flurry of snow filled the sky, passable but a nuisance, and clouded his vision beyond fifty yards. Jon knew they were close to Winterfell, though. He also knew that they would be received as honored guests of the city instead of an approaching army. They had sent two of their fastest riders ahead of the march to serve as messengers with the news of their oncoming arrival.

 

The horns sounded next, bellowing blows that deafened Jon’s ears. He grimaced against their sound. Their bearers rode ahead of Jon’s ranks unlike the drummers who rode somewhere behind him. He had grown weary of the presence of both parties within the Queen’s army during their long march to the North. First, the drums wouldn’t stop pounding. They beat them day and night incessantly as if heralding their presence to all nearby who would listen. And those horns, those damn horns. They never stopped blowing.

 

Jon could do with a reprieve from both with a little bit of silence, and he hoped that the old and familiar walls of Winterfell would bring it.

 

He squinted against the white flurry whirling through the sky, the wind blowing it straight into his face. His hooded furs and the cloth wrapped around his nose, chin, and neck did little to protect his skin from its icy bite, though they had once helped. Now he merely wore it to protect his nose from turning black and falling off. Winter was no longer winter anymore. It was part of the seven hells without fire, but Jon thought the hells didn’t need fire. Ice, fire, it was all damnable.

 

Not that he believed in the seven hells, anyway. That was a southron belief, and Jon was no southron.

 

He was a man of the North.

 

Most of them had laughed at him, too, thinking him a fool for carrying such thick winter garments down into the south, but they weren’t laughing anymore. Jon had instructed all of them to fashion attire for the harsh winter beyond the Neck, but there hadn’t been enough supplies for all of the Queen’s army to dress themselves accordingly. They had lost some of their men and women to the cold already, others to starvation. There hadn’t been enough food to go around either.

 

Jon was regretful to deplete Winterfell’s stores during their stay, but their army needed to eat. Besides, during the winter, all stores ran short. There were very few places in the Seven Kingdoms with pleasant climates that produced a decent amount of food during summer to supply them when winter came. The Reach came to mind first, but there was also Dorne further south, and yet they were too far away from either region now. They would have to make due with Winterfell.

 

The sky was darkening fast into a deep grey. The air dropped to a chill that froze his bones into pillars of ice within his own body. Jon wondered if this was how it felt to be one of the Others, one of the white-skinned walkers. He burrowed his chin into his furs and prayed to whatever gods were listening that they made it to the gates of Winterfell before his balls or his nose fell off.

 

The drums stopped pounding. The horns stopped blowing. In the distance Jon could make out the walls of his childhood home. They looked so small from here, but he knew his home by heart that he could _feel_ it was Winterfell he was looking at, even if he could barely see it.

 

They rode until they reached its gates, and trumpets sounded at their arrival. The army would have to make camp in tents around the outside of the castle’s walls, but the important members at the head of the party would go within its walls. He was one of them, and among the others were Ser Jorah Mormont, the right hand of Queen Daenerys after his pardon, Lord Tyrion Lannister, her left, and of course, the Queen herself, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Jon Snow felt insignificant among them. Even his name was of no importance, and despite the revelation of his true parentage, Jon still felt a bastard. He still felt as though he were the son of the late Eddard Stark.

 

It seemed no amount of words or truth could ever change that. After all, it had been Lord Eddard Stark who had taken him in and who had raised him. Robb, who had been his older brother and dear friend. Bran and Rickon, who had been his little brothers. Sansa, who had been his proper little sister. _And Arya . . ._

 

Jon felt his jaw seize up, the back of his eyes sting. Though in this weather, they were far too dry to feel tears.

 

He dismounted his horse in front of a party waiting just outside of the castle to greet them in the courtyard. They all knelt in rows for Queen Daenerys to pay their respects. Jon watched on, surveying the crowd to look for a familiar face.

 

He saw the towering build of Lord Sandor Clegane first at the head of the crowd in a position once reserved for Lord Eddard Stark, and then a red shock of Lady Sansa’s hair flowing through the rippling wind as it was torn from beneath her hood. Lord Clegane stood on the farthest right with Lady Sansa to his left. To her left, there was a little boy bundled up so tightly he looked plump from too many cakes and pies. It was not sweets, though, that caused his plumpness. Jon could not help himself.

 

For the first time in a long time, he laughed.

 

His laugh drew their attention and the attention of many others, but Jon ignored them all but one and crossed the distance to wrap his arms around his sister in a close embrace.

 

“How are you, my dear sister?” Jon asked, pulling back from Sansa as he placed his hands on her shoulders.

 

She looked to him with a warm smile on her lips. “Very good,” she told him.

 

Jon smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He looked down at her belly. He had noticed, too, a burgeoning roundness on her as well.

 

“And it seems there is another one on the way?” Jon inquired with a grin.

 

Sansa laughed and lowered her chin, placing a hand upon her stomach. “Yes,” she said, “and we are hoping for a girl this time.”

 

Jon turned his attention from Sansa, letting go of her shoulders and looking to her left at the little boy. The child was plump simply from cloth, adorned with too much in order to keep him warm. Jon knelt before him. “And who might you be?” he asked the boy.

 

“Erryk Clegane, my lord,” the boy answered in a tough voice despite his exterior.

 

Jon laughed in response. “I am no lord,” he said, “but you may call me Jon.”

 

“ _Uncle_ Jon,” Sansa insisted from above.

 

Jon glanced up at her, grimacing as he felt the wind in his face again. “We are cousins now,” he told her, but even though he said it, it didn’t feel real.

 

Sansa gave him a look that said there would be no argument over it. “Uncle,” she insisted once more. Jon turned away from her and sighed.

 

“Uncle it is,” he said, smiling at the little boy, and Erryk grinned from ear to ear.

 

“It is good to meet you, Uncle Jon,” Erryk said, and Jon grinned. He laughed, clasping Erryk on the shoulder.

 

“Look at him!” Jon exclaimed. “Polite, too!” He rose to his feet, looking to Lord Clegane. The man was as somber as always, and still sterner than the carved bark of a weirwood tree. “Lord Clegane,” Jon said, tilting his head to the man.

 

Lord Clegane returned the bowed gesture. “Snow,” he rasped.

 

Jon found himself oddly smiling at that. It was nice, he thought, to be reminded of what he still felt like he was instead of being called something that felt like a lie. It was true, it seemed, and he could not refute it, but Jon felt it had no bearing on who he was. He refused to be called a Targaryen. More than that, he refused to be a called a lord. He had refused a position Queen Daenerys had granted him with some ill ease at her response, but the Queen had taken it in stride and let it go. _As you wish_ , she had said to him.

 

And so, he was still Jon Snow, the bastard.

 

Jon preferred it that way.

 

He heard the voice of his little brother last, calling above the sudden gust of wind to make sure he was heard. “Jon!”

 

Jon turned to look, and saw Rickon to Lord Clegane’s right. He was standing at the head of the flank in the true position of where Lord Eddard Stark once stood, only missed because of his short height in comparison to Lord Clegane. After all, he was still a boy, but he was growing fast.

 

Rickon was bigger from the time when Jon saw him last, and his shoulders were beginning to look broader. He stood at full height, straight posture, no longer a small and lanky child. His voice was a little deeper, too. And stronger. _As if it needed to be_ , Jon thought with a wry smile.

 

Jon closed his eyes and bowed his head in respect because of Rickon’s position as Lord of Winterfell, but his younger brother ran straight to him, threw his arms around Jon’s neck, and latched on for dear life. Jon returned the hug with a laugh and lifted Rickon’s feet from the ground. He placed him down again, and no one seemed to mind the interaction. As strange and happy as it was, in these dark times, all the light there was needed to be cherished.

 

They made their way indoors to the warmth of Winterfell’s halls, where a small evening feast was awaiting their arrival. Everyone ate to their pleasure, and they spent the first few hours telling stories and catching up with tales of each other’s lives. Until the hour grew late and the tone grew somber, and the desserts were finished, but their sweetness did not linger.

 

It was then that the topics shifted from stories around the candlelight to matters of life and death.

 

Jon remained quiet as Daenerys spoke of what they meant to do, and as each set of ears began to listen in, the hall grew quieter and quieter until the only sound was the voice of Queen Daenerys speaking and the crackle of candle wicks in the flame. Jon surveyed the faces across the table, and he locked eyes with Sansa. She was staring at him out of what seemed like fear. Jon looked around, and then he stood up from his chair and politely excused himself from their company.

 

“I wish to go for a walk around the castle,” he said. “All of that horseback riding has put a cramp in my legs.”

 

Queen Daenerys blinked her eyes slowly at him. She gave him a look that said she knew something was amiss, and then she gazed across the table to notice his sister’s stare. Then, she turned back to Jon.

 

“You are excused,” Daenerys told him, nodding her head ever so slightly to give him leave.

 

Jon smiled softly at them and bowed his head, removing himself from the Great Hall to the shadows of Winterfell’s corridors underneath an array of torchlight. He might have been Queen Daenerys’s nephew by blood, but she was still his queen and he, her subject. She still treated him as such, and he accepted no rise to his position. Where many might have taken advantage of a newfound status, Jon preferred to not to be involved with the might of kings and queens.

 

He was only here for one reason.

 

He had paused in the middle of the hallway, lost amidst his thoughts as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. Jon heard her footsteps not far behind him, and turned to face her. Sansa was still robed for warmth beneath layers of wool and silk, though she didn’t need it. The hot springs below the castle always kept its hallways and chambers warm, even in the winter. No doubt she wore them for fear of safety, for fear of a chill creeping in and taking a hold of her while she was with child. Jon knew it was unsafe to have a child in the dead of winter, and yet here Sansa was, seven or eight months along and due very soon.

 

“How far along are you?” Jon found himself asking to break the silence.

 

It was not the first time he was graced with her presence after so long to find her carrying a child. It seemed each time they were separated and united, he found two people standing in front of him instead of just one.

 

“Eight months,” Sansa told him. “She will come very soon, the maester says.”

 

“She?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows.

 

“I hope,” Sansa said. “One girl,” she added, “and Sandor may have all the boys he wishes.”

 

“Does he wish for boys?”

 

Sansa was silent. “He does not say.”

 

Jon took a step forward, and then another. His steps were slow and thoughtful like his words. “I think he prays for girls,” he suggested.

 

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Why do you say that?”

 

“Because,” Jon added, “he’s a man who fears his sons would become like him.” Jon raised his eyes to meet hers as he closed the distance to stand before Sansa. “Clegane, if he prays, prays for girls. Girls beautiful and thoughtful, like their mother.”

 

Sansa’s expression did not soften, though, and remained stern. “I was not always thoughtful, Jon.”

 

“No,” he agreed. “You were not.” Jon smiled, earning himself one in return from Sansa. His expression faltered, though. “But we’re not here to talk about prayers and wishes, are we?”

 

“I would think that is the only thing we are here to talk about,” Sansa answered him. “Jon, you can’t be serious about this. If you go beyond the Wall, to those _things_ , you may never come back.” Her eyes were pleading with him. “I may never see you again. Nor Erryk, or your unborn niece.”

 

“I have a duty—”

 

“I don’t care about your duty!” Sansa said, her voice rising. “We’re your _family_ , Jon—”

 

“Why do you think I’m doing this, Sansa?” Jon asked, narrowing his gaze at her. “Why do you think I’m going beyond the Wall? Why do you think I’m risking my life? Do you think I’m fighting for no reason?” He placed his hands on her arms. “Where will you go? Where will you live? How could you be safe in the world if I don’t do something to get rid of it? You expect me to sit here and do nothing, and let the cold swallow us all? I won’t do that.” Jon shook his head and removed his hands from her shoulders. “I won’t do that, Sansa.”

 

“Someone else can do it,” she insisted. “There are other men—”

 

“There aren’t,” Jon said simply. “There are no others.”

 

“Of course there are,” Sansa tried to argue.

 

Jon took a deep breath. “No, there aren’t,” he repeated. “You don’t understand. I am of Targaryen blood, even if I am a Stark in my heart. My blood speaks to the dragons. They are more susceptible to the blood of Targaryens. They listen to it. They follow it. Any another man will be eaten by these beasts, but I can control one of them.” His expression softened, and then he shook his head. “There are no others who can take my place.”

 

The realization dawned in Sansa’s eyes, and instinctively, she took a step back. “Are you still a Stark in your heart?”

 

“I have been nothing else.”

 

Sansa looked away. She brought her hand to her mouth. The lights down the hall caught behind her, casting her in a silhouette. “You may die,” Sansa whispered, her voice broken and cracked.

 

“We may yet all die,” Jon said. “That day will come for us all, eventually.”

 

“You talk about this like it is so easy . . . ”

 

“I have a choice,” Jon told her plainly. “I can save myself or everyone else. It’s an easy decision for me to make, Sansa. I don’t need to think about who I am going to put first.”

 

Sansa took a deep breath, and then another with her hand on her chest. “Is that why you joined the Night’s Watch?” she asked.

 

“No,” he admitted. “I joined that because I didn’t belong anywhere else. I was a bastard with nothing to my name. I had no prospects, no future. _And_ ,” Jon added with a wistful tone, “because I thought it was an honorable trade—and it is, I learned. For those who take advantage of it. For those who believe in their cause. I learned to put my own desires last and to put the good of the realm, the good of its people, first. I learned how to sacrifice. I learned what was important.”

 

Sansa closed her eyes. “You make it sound so easy.”

 

“Isn’t it, though?” Jon asked. “An easy decision to make? Wouldn’t you sacrifice yourself to make a better world for your children, for your children’s children?”

 

“Of course I would—”

 

“What is so hard to accept, then?”

 

Sansa whirled on Jon. “Because you, Rickon, and my children are the only family I have left!”

 

Jon had almost expected as much. He couldn’t have said he didn’t see it coming. It was not true, not entirely, but that was a promise Jon had made and sworn not to break. When he saw Sansa catch herself on the wall with a hand, he ran to her side to steady her.

 

“Are you all right?” he asked.

 

“I need to sit down,” Sansa told him. “I am not feeling well . . . ”

 

“We’ll find a place for you to sit,” he said, and Jon put one arm around her and held her arm with the other. He guided her down the hall to the nearest door. He thought he remembered it led to the kitchens as they were not far from the Great Hall, and he was right. There were a few chairs off in the corners of the room, a table crowded with bowls and flour and bread in the center, and open cupboards all around them.

 

Jon led Sansa to a chair, and then fetched her a glass of water. She drank it easily, and he took a chair from the other corner and brought it over to hers. He placed it beside hers and sat down, looking over at Sansa to see if she was all right. She seemed fine, and what dizziness had overcome her was now gone. Her face had fallen, though. It looked tired and blank.

 

“Did your husband tell you of my warning when he returned to you?” Jon asked her. He had hoped Lord Clegane delivered the message and prepared for a way out of the North should it come to the worst of it.

 

Sansa did not look at him, but recognition dawned in her eyes. “Yes, he did.”

 

“Did he make the preparations for you, him, and Erryk to leave by boat through White Harbor?”

 

Sansa’s face tightened, but she looked at him this time. “Yes,” she repeated, “but if you fail, how will we be safe across the ocean? Will they not cross it?”

 

“We don’t know,” Jon admitted, “but we also don’t intend to lose. But you’re on the very edge of the land nearest to the Wall. Should the Wall come down, they will strike here first. I don’t intend to fight and die and let you all die with me.” Jon placed his elbows against his knees and leaned forward, lowering his voice so that their servants did not hear. “When the sound of a horn unlike any you have ever heard in your life echoes throughout the land, you must leave. When you feel the chill of winter turning your skin to ice, you must leave. When the sky grows darker during the day and the wind howls strangely, you must leave. If you ever hear the ice speaking to you, it’s too late.”

 

Jon sat back in his chair. “You must take the boat to White Harbor and follow the instructions I have given to your lord husband. It will be a rough journey for a newborn, but you must make it. You must not hesitate, Sansa.”

 

Sansa swallowed nervously and raised her eyes to him. “Will we be safe there?” she asked in a low voice. “Where you are sending us?”

 

“Is there anywhere in this world where we are safe in times of war?” Jon said to her, though he found it a bitter response. Yet it was the truth, and sometimes the truth tasted bitter on the tongue. “You should be, though. I have a guide who will meet you at White Harbor. She is skilled at seafaring, and she knows the city well. She will take you someplace safe in Braavos.”

 

“Why Braavos?” Sansa inquired, looking confused. “It is so far north—”

 

“Believe it or not, it is the only safe place,” Jon told her. “They are a city of stone, and they take threats very seriously. Slavery is also illegal there. If you go too far out east in your attempts to find safety, you will be captured, bought, and sold as someone’s bed slave, Sansa. I will not have that for you.”

 

Her face paled, and then she nodded her head slowly. “Braavos, it is,” she agreed with him.

 

Jon watched her, seeing the struggle on her face. He knew this was hard for her, but it was a necessary evil. Winterfell was her home, but it would not be a home for long if it was torn asunder in battle as the eternal winter fell upon them from the far north. If she was here when it happened, it would be her graveyard, not her home any longer. It would be only rubble to anoint her grave and the graves of those she loved so dear.

 

“What will Sandor do in Braavos?” Sansa asked in a quiet voice. “Will he have work to support his family?”

 

“My guide will see to it that he finds work,” Jon said. “That is part of the bargain. She will get you settled in Braavos and find employment for Lord Clegane. She knows many people in Braavos. Treat her well despite her foul language. She has a mouth on her, but you will get used to it. She is trustworthy beyond all others.” Jon leaned forward again to get his point across. “Do not _ever_ doubt her. You may trust every word she says. She will keep an eye on you in the beginning, but you must not expect her to be there always. She is her own person, and she is quite fierce about that.”

 

Sansa nodded her head in understanding. “What about Rickon—”

 

“He will not choose to leave with you, I’m afraid,” Jon revealed to her. “He will choose Winterfell over survival. He won’t abandon it again. He did it once when he was just a baby, and he almost lost it forever. You won’t sway him to join you. He believes his place is here, in Winterfell, and if the castle falls, he will fall with it.”

 

“But that’s madness—”

 

“I would like for him to leave with you, Sansa, but Rickon believes a lord’s place is with his castle and his people. If he abandons, it will seem as though he is not fit to rule. For that reason, he will not flee. When the time comes, you must think of yourself, your children, and your lord husband. Do not waste your time with others. They will not come, and you will only be slowed down with too much weight if you try to save everyone.”

 

Jon reached out, holding his hand before Sansa. She looked down at it, staring for a short moment, and then slowly, she intertwined her fingers with his.

 

“You’re a Stark,” Jon told her. “Should the Wall fall, should Winterfell fall with it, should we die, this will all be yours and yours alone. You may return to it one day if I have made this land safe for you to come back to, and your sons as well as your daughters will be its rulers. This is why you must be safe, Sansa. This is why you must live.”

 

Sansa’s eyes were sad as she regarded him. “But it’s not the only reason, is it?”

 

Jon felt his jaw tighten. “You are my sister, and your place is not in battle. I want you to live.” He placed his hand on top of hers, covering it with his own. “I want you to be safe.”

 

Sansa laid her hand atop of his as well until all four of their hands were between them, intertwined and gripping firmly. She was beginning to realize, he thought, that this could be the last time she would ever see him again. Jon felt her grip grow stronger, but he did not complain.

 

“If I ever come back,” Sansa said in a trembling voice, “I will not be Sansa Stark. If I ever come back to this place, I will be Alayne _Stone_.” The name struck an ache in his heart, but Jon knew she didn’t chose the name out of truth for one she might take, but that it would get her point across quickly and painfully. “I have seen what happens to rulers. I’ve seen what becomes of men who sit on thrones. I will not have that for my children, Jon. Not ever. If I come back, there will be no rulers. There will be no thrones. There will be no crowns. I will be a poor woman, and my children will be small folk, and they will never wear a crown upon their heads that will take them too early to their graves.”

 

“There are many things in this life that can take you to an early grave, sister,” Jon tried to reason with her, but it did not work.

 

“But it will not be a crown,” she murmured, and then she let go of his hands. Jon watched Sansa for a moment as she composed herself, and then she asked him, “Will you take me back to the feast, Jon? I’m still hungry.” She placed her hand upon her belly, a small laugh coming from her lips. “I can feel it.”

 

“Of course,” Jon told her.

 

He helped her to rise, and then he guided her back to her seat in the Great Hall. He bid them all a goodnight and made his way to his chambers for the night. Jon slept fitfully, dreaming of an end to things, a torrent of snow coming to drown him as an army of hoof beats resounded above his corpse. He dreamed of battle, fighting the dead, as his black armor gleamed like ice under the moonlight. His sword, bright like the flames of the sun, cut through his enemies and gutted them with ease. The ground was painted with the blood and innards of them all.

 

He had those dreams every night for three days in Winterfell, and then came the dawn of their departure. Queen Daenerys refused to stay for too long.

 

“Each day wasted,” Daenerys called out above their heads, and Jon remembered his dream, “is another day we give to the enemy to prepare _against_ us!”

 

By midday, they were ready to leave Winterfell. Jon watched as the commanders amongst their men and women filed out of the gates. He had said his goodbyes to everyone, but he took a special moment longer for Rickon, Sansa, and Erryk.

 

“He will grow up to be very strong,” Jon told Sansa, smiling down at Erryk.

 

“Yes,” she said with a smile, “like his father.”

 

Jon ruffled Erryk’s hair with a grin before he turned his attention to Sansa. The smile faded from his lips, his expression turning somber. “Remember,” he said in a low voice. “Remember to live, and not just for me. For Father, and Catelyn. For Robb. For Arya. For Bran.” He still heard Bran’s voice in his dreams sometimes, but then, he also sometimes heard Father’s, too.

 

“I will,” Sansa answered him softly. Her steely exterior broke down until her face was vulnerable before him, and then she threw her arms around his neck. “Be safe, Jon, and come back to me one day when the sun shines brightly again and the air is warm once more.”

 

Jon closed his eyes and returned her hug. “I will try,” he said, and he pulled back from her embrace. “But I can’t make promises I don’t know I can keep.”

 

“Try,” Sansa pleaded with him, and Jon bowed his head slightly to answer her.

 

He mounted his horse not long after, looking back at the company of Winterfell one last time before turning around and following Queen Daenerys as she rode her horse out of the gate of Winterfell. Ser Jorah and Lord Tyrion rode on either side of her, to the back. Jon rode behind them. They were an odd company, but all of them had nothing left to lose—and they would have nothing if they did not fight for it.

 

As the gates drew further and further away behind them, the sky took on a dreary chill it had not had on the way north to Winterfell. The frost bit his nose like serrated teeth, digging in ruthlessly. It was darker, colder, and Jon knew he was marching towards an end.

 

Whose end, though, he could not say.

 

 


	29. Water’s Wider

_xxix._

 

Through the open windows of her room, the courtyard below was visible past a faint sheen of fog that lay on the grounds. It was normal, Sansa was told by the town’s older folk, given the weather during the winters up in the North. In all of her life, she had never experienced a winter before. She was a summer child, like all of her other siblings had been as well. Sansa had known a long summer as she had grown up in these walls, and she had never seen nor felt anything of the sort like this before. It was new to her, and at times, it felt unbearable.

 

Those were the nights she had to shut her windows, huddle beneath her thickest covers, and burn the logs for longer. Those were the days that she had to wear her bulkiest gowns, longest robes, and stick to steaming hot soup for her meals. It kept her warm, and it made the cold less deadly. _In the winter the cold is always deadly_ , they said. She heard them say it everyday to anyone who would listen.

 

With the clouds above in a rolling wave across the sky, it seemed almost evening under the shade they provided, though it was midday. The clouds drifted low on some days, at times for weeks, and hung like a mist wrapped about Winterfell’s battlements. Those older folk who had lived past the War of the Five Kings could recall a time similar but different. _It’s never gotten this cold before_ , they would say. _I’ve never seen a winter like this in all my life, and it’ll only get worse, mark my words_.

 

Sansa looked down in her arms. She was cradling Catelyn, who was swathed in a bundled blanket with only her face to poke out visibly, peering up at her mother with dark blue eyes the color of sapphires, as Sansa watched the courtyard from her window high above it. _Catelyn_ , for her mother. It was the only name that had come to mind aside from her sister’s name upon her baby’s birth almost a month ago. Sandor had hardly disapproved, and so it had become fixed.

 

They called her Cat for short, and Cat was quiet and austere for a baby. She gave everything scrutinizing looks, like she was taking the measure of it, including her own mother and father and older brother, Erryk. Cat narrowed her eyes before she had learned to do anything else, and she seemed to poke at things before she would grab them with her little fingers. It had made Sansa laugh. Sansa thought it was endearing. Sandor, however, scowled and thought it was ‘off,’ as he put it.

 

As Sansa gently rocked Cat back and forth in her arms, she lifted her gaze to cast it over the snowy grounds below. In the near distance she could just make out the bluish silhouettes of her husband and her son, playing in the snow. At least it was the closest thing to playing as Sandor would get with the boy, which meant allowing the boy to throw snowballs at him and, on occasion, chasing Erryk and sending his son squealing in the other direction.

 

Sansa couldn’t hold back her grin as she watched Sandor dart left and then right, blocking Erryk’s path. Their son let out a shriek of happiness, whirled around, and dipped off in the opposite direction, disappearing in a twirl behind a circular stone edifice—an empty fountain, unused in the winter—and out of her sight.

 

She tipped her eyes lower, taking in the sight of Catelyn’s eyes slowly drifting to a close. Stubbornly, she tried to reopen them, her lashes fluttering, but soon they fell back down until they were fully closed, a peaceful look overcoming her tiny face. Sansa carefully tucked the blanket around her daughter’s face, stroking her finger along Cat’s soft cheek.

 

When the rumble tore through the ground below her feet, it was unlike anything Sansa had ever felt before in Winterfell—or in her entire life. The castle seemed to groan and shudder deeply, like a giant waking from his slumber, and Sansa immediately stood to her feet, sheltering her baby in her arms. Dust and bits of rock fell from the roof, and Sansa looked up, covering Catelyn’s face by pressing her daughter’s head to her chest.

 

Then, the tremble, if tremble it could be called, seemed to lift from the earth and raise itself into the sky. The deep rumbling became a sound, long and mournful and billowing, as it rose into the sky like a horn blown by the gods.

 

While the tremble beneath her feet and all around her had startled her, the sound had pierced her heart with an inexplicable fear that had swallowed her whole.

 

Sansa had always considered herself courageous of soul, but she was terrified. In an instant she had torn through the doorway and down the halls with Catelyn in her arms, seeking the nearest door to take her to the courtyard beyond. She had to get to her family, to Sandor and Erryk.

 

Sansa ran into them halfway down the very last hallway that would have led her outside.

 

“Did you hear that, Sandor?” she implored him, reaching out with a free hand to touch her son’s hair once she had secured Catelyn in a single arm grip.

 

“Yes, I heard it,” he said grimly. “I felt it, too.”

 

“Was it the horn?” Sansa asked.

 

She didn’t have to say which one. Sandor knew which one she meant. There was only one horn in all of the world that could make a sound like that. One to shake the very mountains and very foundation of stone. Sandor’s face became harder until it was nearly set in stone. “We must leave,” he barked gruffly. “ _Now_.”

 

 _Now_ was too soon, though, but Sansa found her feet following Sandor outside to the blanched courtyard. She wanted to call out to him, to ask him to wait. They had too much to consider, things to pack, people to say goodbye to, but Sandor shuffled his way through people using his broad shoulders, and Sansa could do little else but try to keep up with him with a baby in her arms and her son’s hand holding tightly onto her dress lest he become swept away as well.

 

They ran into Lord Davos Seaworth amongst the fray of bustling bodies with his wife and children at his side. Shireen was there as well. She wore thicker clothes than all the rest of them. After the sickness had passed, she had been more fragile than normal. It was clear she was not used to the weather. They had taken every precaution to prevent it from coming back worse than before.

 

Lord Davos stopped in front of them, his family stopping with him.

 

“It’s war, isn’t it?” he asked, his expression solemn but his eyes full of worry. He took one measured look of Sandor, Sansa, the baby in her arms, and frightened little Erryk at her side, Erryk’s fist clenched into her gown like an iron shackle. “You’re leaving,” Davos suddenly stated, his voice surprisingly calm.

 

“Jon’s orders,” Sandor rasped, his words becoming white mist on the wind.

 

Davos looked between them all again, seeming to contemplate something. “Take my family with you, please,” he then said, ushering his children, his two boys, and Shireen towards Sandor and Sansa. “If you have room, please take them. I will not leave. I must stay with the Lord of Winterfell.” _Lord Rickon_ , Sansa heard unspoken. Her baby brother, the Lord of Winterfell.

 

An unseen chord pulled at her heart, causing it to pound hard with a dull ache. There was no time left for them to say goodbye, but Rickon had been told of their intentions as well as Jon’s instructions long before this day ever came, and he had made his own position very clear to them. Boy though he was, he would not leave Winterfell. _A lord doesn’t abandon his castle_ , Rickon had said. _You may leave_. _I will not follow_.

 

Rickon had shown no fear at the time either. He believed in his brother, Jon. He believed in their victory against what was coming, and he had held his chin up high as he had uttered the words, a spark of hope behind his normally wild eyes.

 

He would have made their father very, very proud.

 

Davos looked last of all to his wife with a gaze that was a mixture of sadness and longing on his aged and withered features. “I love you,” he said out loud, in the open in front of everyone, holding both of her arms between his hands. Sandor hadn’t even agreed to take them yet, but Sansa knew he wouldn’t say no because of her. She would insist, and he would say yes.

 

Davos kissed his wife on the mouth as if it were the last time he would ever get to kiss her, and then he hugged her one last time. She did not protest like Sansa expected her to. Perhaps Marya was used to Davos leaving her after all of those years serving Stannis Baratheon, and she had grown out of the habit a long time ago to cling onto him, begging him not to go. Sansa could picture it as if it had happened once before but no longer. It filled her with despair. Already, she had too much of it in her heart.

 

Davos knelt before his children, hugging them and saying goodbye to each boy. He then turned his attention to Shireen, giving her the biggest smile of all with gleaming eyes. But his eyes weren’t gleaming from happiness, but fresh tears not yet fallen. “Be good for Marya,” he said to her, holding her shoulders, “and keep my boys in line.” He touched his finger to her nose, and Shireen had thrown her arms around his neck, nearly toppling him over into the snow.

 

Suddenly, Sansa hoped there were enough provisions to get them across the sea. As she thought it about, she remembered that Sandor had only ordered enough for three to be packed. Catelyn was still a newborn, and she only drank her wet nurse’s milk. Sansa could feed her as well, of course.

 

Before she could register what was happening, they were moving again through the crowd. Sandor led the way, and Marya was beside her. Two women, a baby, and four children. Sansa hoped Sandor didn’t feel like he was running away from the fight, but she was certain he knew he had to look out them. She could flee to Essos alone if she had to, but she would rather her husband were with her.

 

Sansa didn’t want to face it alone.

 

It was more than that, though. She didn’t want her children to grow up without a father. She didn’t want Sandor to miss out on his children’s lives. Sansa wanted them all together as a family, and she wanted to keep them together no matter the cost, remembering her own broken childhood as her family as been torn from limb to limb and scattered to the wind. The memory was like ash on the back of her tongue.

 

They were on horseback before she knew it, and the ride was a long and arduous one across the crystallized landscape in a path towards the castle built upon the White Knife, the lands gifted to Sandor along with his lordship. The castle was mostly empty, save for a few left to run it in Sandor’s absence. Sansa had refused to leave Winterfell, wanting to cherish all the time possible with her little brother before it was gone. Sandor had abided her wishes, and they had remained in the walls of Winterfell despite having a castle of their own to their names.

 

The boat waiting for them at Castle Clegane was not big enough for all of them. There was room, of course, for all of them to board, but there was only one cabin and nowhere for all of them to sleep. Sandor had not anticipated having a party of eight. There was only bedding enough for three and a makeshift cradle to hold Catelyn. They would have to find another vessel upon reaching White Harbor, though it seemed best for this boat was small and not made for sea travel.

 

Once they were all aboard the boat, Sansa left Cat in the hands of Shireen while she and Marya helped Sandor get the vessel to river. Marya knew more about boats than Sansa did, for her husband used to be a smuggler before he served the last Baratheon king, and his knowledge had always been in ships. As for Sansa, she tried to help in what ways she could, which was mostly following directions given to her by Sandor or Marya.

 

It seemed the whole journey from Winterfell to Castle Clegane was done in dead silence. They only spoke when needed to, and the whole thing had become just a blurry memory in Sansa’s mind. There was a light fog upon the river, rising from its waters. Sansa wasn’t sure what caused it, but once the boat sliced through the fog in a slow and steady pace, it reminded her of being horseback not long past, cutting through the fog of her mind as she rode.

 

Things were still for now, though, and she stood by the boat’s edge across from Sandor with her hands upon the wooden balustrade. He stood a little ways off to her right, gazing across the river. Sandor cast his eyes in all directions, one after another slowly, taking in measure of the lands they passed by and through.

 

Sansa reached up, clutching the shawl about her neck closer around her. “Do we have coin for a larger ship once we reach White Harbor?”

 

Sandor was silent at first. “Yes,” he finally answered her, turning his head back in her direction, though he was not looking at her. His eyes were still outward on the river. “I stored coin on the boat, too. Do you think I’m a fool? We were going to need it, don’t you see? Food in your belly and cloth on your back is one thing, but coin makes a journey safer for our lot. We’ll need a bigger boat, and we’ll need lodgings in Braavos. Let’s hope your brother planned for _that_.” Sandor set his jaw and his eyes grimly against the bleak landscape before him. Sansa could only guess his thoughts on the matter.

 

“He may not have anticipated it, but I’m sure we’ll make due,” Sansa replied. She cast her gaze over her shoulder at Marya. She had ushered the boys into the cabin for a nap, and Shireen had taken Catelyn inside of it as well. Marya had sat on the bench just outside of the cabin, resting her head against the wooden wall just behind her. She looked tired more than anything. Tired more than sad. Sansa glanced back to Sandor. “You wouldn’t have left them,” she said, conviction in her voice.

 

Sandor narrowed his eyes. “No,” he rasped, “I wouldn’t have, no thanks to you.”

 

Any other person would have taken Sandor’s words as though he had wished to leave Marya, Steffan, Stannis, and Shireen in Winterfell to whatever fate awaited those who had chosen to stay, but not Sansa. She knew the tone of his voice and every infliction, and she smiled softly against the chill that tried to freeze her face into that of an immobile statue.

 

“We will fare better with them,” Sansa added kindly, glad for even the simplest conversation to drive away the sense of the world traveling too fast around her. For a moment in time, it had left her standing in the middle of an imperceptible dust that stretched for leagues all around. The feeling was ebbing away slowly as the water licked at the sides of the boat, sloshing below them. “Marya is skilled in many things, and the boys know much as well. When we arrive in Braavos, we can all live together—”

 

“Seems a bit much, don’t you think?” Sandor cut in, his voice rough but calm.

 

Sansa was taken aback. “Where else will they go?”

 

A deep sigh racked his chest, and he turned away from the boat’s railing. “I was not expecting to house three more children—”

 

Sansa reached out for Sandor’s arm, stopping him. “Sandor,” she pleaded softly, “they need a home, and we’re the only people they’ll know there. We can’t just leave them, not like that. It wouldn’t be right. Not after everything Marya has done for me, and Shireen, and the boys . . . ” Sansa glanced down momentarily, shaking her head. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “Marya was there for me while you were gone. I won’t abandon her.”

 

Sandor was quiet again. When Sansa looked up at his face, his jaw was tight. His eyes were hard as they stared out. He did not shake her hand free from his arm, but he did pull back and walk away from her, silent all the while. Sansa sensed his frustration, though, but she chose to leave him alone. If he grew angry now, Sansa was afraid of what he might choose to do once they reached White Harbor.

 

The white mist seemed to part from the river as they drew closer to the city at the end of the river and on the cusp of the sea. Its buildings and walls were visible from afar, jutting like craggy white rocks into the cloudy sky. The city was built out of white-washed stone, giving it its name _White Harbor_. The roofs were made out of dark grey slate in steep slants, which appeared black from a distance from the lack of proper sunlight.

 

It was some time before they were in the harbor. Sandor took care of tying up the boat. Marya helped him as Sansa went to check on Catelyn and Erryk. Catelyn was sleeping, and Erryk was awake again with the boys. They were all playing a quiet game inside of the cabin to entertain themselves but not draw attention. As Sansa headed back out of the cabin, she saw Sandor striding up to her. She met him halfway across the deck, her skirts swaying behind her.

 

“Stay on the boat with the children,” Sandor instructed in his gruff voice. “It’ll be safer that way—”

 

“Clegane?” a sharp voice called out suddenly, coming from a girl. Quickly, they both turned to look. The girl was on a horse, which she had led onto the dock. It was a strange sight to see, a horse on the docks. “Oh,” the girl said immediately as she caught the view of his face, “ _you’re_ ugly.”

 

Sansa was not touching Sandor, but she still felt the air around him tense at the girl’s uncouth words. “And who in the seven hells are you, _girl_?” he threw back, which drew an uncanny grin from the girl.

 

She held out her arms and made a mock bow with a flourish of her wrist. “Cat of the Canals, they call me,” she said in a false announcement voice, but as soon as she righted herself on her horse, the funny act was gone. She was all seriousness again. “Now, grab your things. You’ve got a boat to catch.”

 

“Who sent you, girl? And answer me true, or I’ll have your tongue out for mopping the deck of my boat,” Sandor snarled at her.

 

The dark-haired girl, who couldn’t have been more than five and ten or six and ten, who wore shabby clothes under a long mud-stained robe, guided her horse around until they were facing back the way they had come onto the docks. “Jon Snow sent me,” the girl said in a taut voice, “the one who rides with dragons.”

 

 _They have a name for everybody_ , Sansa thought, but Sansa couldn’t recall anyone spreading the tale of Jon’s true parentage across the Seven Kingdoms. The Queen knew of it, and her court knew, but her court did not mix and mingle much with those of the Seven Kingdoms who did not outright join her cause and her army. She had been laying claim over each of the kingdoms, slowly but surely, in an act of warfare that surmounted the lands with fire and blood.

 

Then, of course, Sansa remembered that Jon had sent a guide for them. He had not explained to her how he had gotten a guide or how he had communicated his need to the girl in the middle of war, but he had told Sansa how to find out if the guide was genuine or a fake.

 

Sansa raised her chin, feeling her eyes turn to steel. “ _Valar morghulis_ ,” she said to the girl. It was the phrase Jon had given to her, though Sansa had no idea what it even meant, and he had told her the response she should await for when she said it.

 

The girl turned her head to Sansa. She had stilled at the words. Slowly, she tilted her head forward as if in a slight bow. “ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” the girl replied, a strange sense of calm and seriousness overcoming the girl. The girl, who called herself Cat, held Sansa’s gaze steadily.

 

Those were familiar eyes to Sansa, set in an unfamiliar face. They were grey and sharp, and they reminded Sansa of her father’s eyes. Of course, many people had grey eyes. It was nothing, Sansa told herself, but there was something familiar about this girl that she couldn’t quite place.

 

 _She is the one_ , thought Sansa. The answer had been the correct one. Not only that, but Sansa remembered what Jon had said about the girl’s crude vocabulary. _She has a mouth on her, but you will get used to it_. _She is trustworthy beyond all others_.

 

“Get your things,” Cat commanded with a firm voice, looking between Sandor and Sansa. “We don’t have much time, and a storm is coming.”

 

While the sky was overcast with clouds as it normally was, Sansa was not sure if the girl meant a real storm or a symbolic one. Either way, they shouldered what few packs they had stored on the boat in advance. Sansa moved close to Sandor’s side, speaking low so no one would hear her. “Do you have the coin?”

 

Sandor did not answer her out loud. He merely gave one perfunctory nod, which was a good enough answer for her. Sansa fell into step beside him with Catelyn in her arms. She had found a shoulder sling next to one of the bags, slung it over her arms, and gently placed Catelyn inside of it. It cradled her baby girl gently to her chest. Erryk walked beside her, and behind her, Marya fell into step with her boys and Shireen.

 

“You have a large party,” Cat replied from atop her horse. “I wasn’t expecting so many.”

 

“Plans changed,” Sandor responded loud enough for her to hear.

 

“Come with me,” Cat said, as if ignoring Sandor’s response, and they fell into a line behind her horse as she led them off the rickety planks of the dock and onto the street made of stone beyond it. They stayed in the dock area, following a path to their right. Sansa noticed ships much bigger than their own in this direction, and she wondered which one was meant for them.

 

Presently, their guide dismounted her horse. She was much shorter without her horse, a little over five heads when standing at full height. The girl took the reins in hand and guided the beast behind her until, at last, she paused before one long stretch of dock towards a merchant galley and gently popped the creature on its behind, sending it trotting off away from the docks and into the city.

 

Cat led the way towards the ship, stopping to talk with its captain in a language Sansa nor any of the others understood. It was a foreign tongue, which seemed a strange thing for a girl who looked Westerosi to speak. She had the wild look of the North in her, in her ragged brown clothes beneath a wind and water beaten robe fit for cold weather. As familiar as the girl seemed to Sansa, Sansa had never seen her in all her life.

 

 _Arya would be about her age now_ , came an unbidden thought to Sansa’s mind. She froze instantly at the thought, struck dumb by it but also torn with a momentary grief. Grief for their fleeing of Winterfell. Grief for her lost family. Grief for her long lost sister she had not seen since she was no more than one and ten or two and ten.

 

It felt as thought it had been a lifetime ago, and Sansa pushed down the pain as easily as it had come to her. If there was one thing she had learned most deftly in her life, it was how to hide what was inside. She had learned that trait very well over the years.

 

Pulled suddenly away from her thoughts, Sansa heard the end of a conversation that had been happening between Sandor and their guide. “ . . . Coming from a man whose face looks like a half burnt loaf of black bread—”

 

Sandor raised his fist, something Sansa had not seen him do in many a year.

 

To avoid the worst of possible outcomes, Sansa reacted quickly. She touched his arm and stayed his sway. Sandor’s jaw was grit like two irons bars together. His muscles were taut and as tense as a bowstring. “Husband,” Sansa warned quietly as she could. “Please, do not act so brash.”

 

She cast her gaze towards their guide, whose cold grey eyes narrowed under the shadow of her brow.

 

“Wise choice,” the girl said. Cat lazily turned her eyes back to Sandor as if she hadn’t been afraid of him hitting her, not even for a second. “You ought to listen to your wife. Woman’s got more sense than your block-headed—”

 

Sandor wrenched his arm free of Sansa’s grip. Cat slipped back deftly out of his range, seemingly still unaffected by his sudden, angry movement. Sandor, on the other hand, made no more moves to descend upon her.

 

“You just do your damn job, you filthy boat rat,” Sandor rasped.

 

“Not until I get my payment,” the girl said.

 

“Your _what_?”

 

“My payment,” she repeated. “I was promised payment for this. You don’t think I’d do it for free, do you?”

 

Sandor looked as though he was ready to boil over like a pot of soup left over the fire for too long. He shoved his fist, white-knuckled, into his coat and pulled out a single shiny coin. He threw it at her. Cat caught it with ease, moving only her hand, the rest of her body remaining still. The girl had skill, Sansa thought.

 

“ _Hmm_ ,” she hummed, the sound thrumming low in her throat. Cat pocketed the coin, shaking her head. “No, this won’t do. I don’t come cheap like the whores in Braavos.”

 

Sandor, using every last bit of his willpower to restrain himself, stuffed his hand into his pocket again and drew out two more coins. This time he held them out to her, inviting her to hold out her hand to accept them. Cat glanced at his hand, at last with some wariness, but held out her hand to take the coin. Sandor dropped them into her palm. She retreated her hand fast, examined the coins, and stuffed them into her own coat pocket. Finally, she nodded her head.

 

“All right, come aboard,” she said, stepping back out of their way. “You, you big oaf. You, you lordly lady. You, big boy. My, you’ve got some strong arms, little one. Come on, come on. Are these your runts? They look much younger than you . . . ”

 

Whoever had taught the girl manners, they hadn’t taught her well enough.

 

She boarded the boat behind them and called to the captain in that same foreign tongue as before. He responded with a shout, and suddenly, the boat came alive with movement as men ran to and fro across the deck.

 

“The seas will be clear for a few more days,” Cat called out above the roar of the men running past them, hollering at each other, “but there are storms coming our way from the north. We want to miss them, so we best leave now!”

 

Cat showed them to their cabin on the boat. It was one room with four beds, two bunked together on the left and two bunked together on the right.

 

“You can fit two to a bed if you squeeze in tight,” the girl said. “The children will make it easier, too. They’re small. The captain will give you food for the journey, so if you’ve brought your own, hide it, and save it. You don’t want to share with them. They’ll eat it all up. Keep your mouths shut, too. Don’t go saying where you came from or why. You,” she said pointing to Sandor, “you’re a butcher, so you’ve got an explanation for that ugly face. Your wife’s a shopkeeper, to explain those soft hands. You’re a shipwright’s wife. I saw you helping this ugly beast as you pulled into harbor. Whoever you are outside of that, I don’t care. Keep it to yourself. You’re all going to Braavos to escape the war and find decent work. If you have any questions, I’ll be around.”

 

With that, she disappeared from the cabin as quick and soundlessly as a cat.

 

Sansa helped the boys to settle in with Marya’s help, and they both gave them something to eat before they bothered the captain before it was mealtime. Sandor said he would stay in the cabin. The guide had angered him as far as Sansa could tell. She then asked Marya to look out for Catelyn for a time.”

 

“What for?” Marya asked in a low voice, taking the bundle that contained baby Catelyn into her arms. She bounced Sansa’s daughter gently.

 

“I want to speak to our guide,” Sansa told her, whispering so Sandor would not hear her over the boys talking. “I have questions, and I’m sure she’ll be gentler with me than she was with my husband.”

 

Marya raised her eyebrows as if to say _good luck with that_ , but she turned away from Sansa all the same with Catelyn in her embrace. As Sansa left the cabin, she heard Marya singing softly to Catelyn over the boys’ chatter.

 

The light from the sky was fading as Sansa wandered out onto the deck. Most of the men were resting or sitting down, and they paid little heed to Sansa as she passed by them. Her hood was thrown over her head to obscure her face as well as her auburn locks of hair, which were sure to catch the eye and draw attention she did not want.

 

It struck her suddenly that she had made this journey before. Many, many years ago, she had taken a vessel across the sea with Sandor in a very similar fashion. It was strange to think of how long it had been. With this way of living, a few years almost seemed like a lifetime.

 

Sansa found their guide at the bow of the ship. The girl stood alone, her hands on the balustrade as she gazed over the rushing dark waters of the Narrow Sea.

 

Sansa approached her quietly, not wanting to startle her. She tried to think what she could say to her, but all of the words fled from her mind.

 

There was something about the girl that seemed so reverently familiar, but Sansa could not place what it was. She looked like no one Sansa had ever met before, but on second inspection, there was something very familiar about the way the girl held herself that spoke of someone Sansa once knew. Even the way the girl glared with those hard eyes of hers, it stirred memories in Sansa that she thought she had long since forgotten.

 

 _Arya would be about her age now_ , came the thought once again, unbidden.

 

Sansa tried to steel herself against the swell of feelings, but she felt it now more acutely while alone in the presence of this girl than with the others nearby.

 

She reached the balustrade and placed her own hands upon it. It stirred up more memories of a seafaring journey she had taken once before. The cold sea breeze caught in her hair, and Sansa breathed it in deep.

 

“What are you doing out here?” the girl, named Cat, asked all of a sudden. She sounded bored more than annoyed.

 

 _The name_ , Sansa thought. _The name is just as strange as the age_.

 

“Is Cat your real name?” she asked.

 

The girl was still. She was also silent. The wind came stronger this time, catching on Sansa’s hood and whipping it back. Her auburn hair flew loose behind her, long red strands streaked with a soft gold in some places. Cat glanced over at her out of the corner of her eyes, but Sansa noticed it.

 

“What’s a real name?” Cat asked, sounding lazy but also contemplative. “Parents give them, but people don’t call us that. People give us other names. People call us other things. We get new names. We take new names. What you’re born with means nothing.”

 

“That’s not true,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “Your real name, it tells you where you come from—”

 

“Not everyone cares where they come from, _m’lady_ ,” Cat responded. “Just look at you. Nice, pretty lady of a lordling, and you married yourself to a beast of a man like _that_. Can’t mean much, wherever you came from.”

 

Sansa felt a sudden flash of anger and hurt. It was surprising to feel, given it was a complete stranger she was talking to. “You don’t know me.”

 

“Aye, and you don’t know me, little lady,” the girl said. She was oddly calm. “I’ve been all across this wide world, and a fancy lordling’s daughter like you wouldn’t know the first thing of half of what I’ve been through.”

 

The girl lifted her chin, and the last ray of sunlight peeking through the clouds caught on her face, illuminating her unfamiliar features.

 

And yet, they weren’t unfamiliar.

 

Sansa could see below the unknown face something very familiar to her, a sharp curve of the cheek, the high brow bone beneath the hair, the long stern face that spoke of Northern blood like that of her father and his father before him. It was a long line to be descended from, and Sansa had known the traits her whole life.

 

She gasped, then, suddenly, her hand coming up to her chest. “ . . . _Arya_?”

 

If nothing else she had said prior awakened a response out of the girl, that name certainly did. Cat flinched, turned her back from Sansa to face her fully, though her feet walked her a step back. Her eyes were narrowed and cold. One hand still clutched the balustrade with an iron grip, turning her knuckles white.

 

“Don’t call me some dead girl’s name,” the girl warned, grounding the words out from between her teeth. If Sansa had any other doubts, they were washed away in an instant as a light of total recognition entered her eyes.

 

“ _Arya_ —”

 

Arya leapt back swiftly. Her hand flashed quickly towards the sword hilt at her hip. “Stay right there,” she warned harder this time.

 

Sansa felt her mouth fall open in shock. “But, Arya, I _know_ you. You wouldn’t—”

 

“You called me horse-face and shoved me away because I was different than you, and you say you _know_ me?” The blaze of fire in her eyes cooled down, turning them back into cold ash. “Get back to your family and your cabin if you can walk without tripping on your pretty robes,” she hissed, “and keep your distance from me, woman.”

 

With that, she hurried off the bow and disappeared out of Sansa’s sight.

 

With a heavy ache in her heart, Sansa leaned against the balustrade of the ship and bowed her head to the waters below. Tightly, she gripped the wood.

 

She had lost her baby brother, Rickon, and she had gained a sister that no longer considered her a sister anymore.


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Notes:** Originally, I was going to end this with two more chapters, but I changed my mind and did a complete 180 on the ending, which I like this ending much better than the original. Anyway, I'm very happy that this story has finally reached its conclusion, and thank you all so very much for reading it and following its tumultuous journey to the end. ♥

_xxx._

 

It was a bright, crisp morning when Sansa walked the docks of Braavos with the chilly wind against her face, a basket of fish in hand, its bottom corner balanced on her hip to help support the weight, and the stain of saltwater at the foot of her dress. Living in Braavos meant doing Braavosi work, and there was no end to the supply and demand of fish in a harbor city such as this. They were located so far north that crops could barely grow in the hard soil. Sansa knew that all too well by now. In their first few months here, she had attempted to plant a garden with Marya. They had learned the hard way—greens and Braavosi weather did not mix.

 

It was a simple life, but it was a happy life. Every morning, Sansa sold fish, and her hands stunk of it by the time she came back home to her family, but the smell no longer bothered her. She could always wash the scent off her hands, but she gave up on trying to wash it out of her dresses.

 

In the evenings they were all together—she, Sandor, Marya, and the children. It was an idea quickly discarded in the beginning, separating from Marya, Steffon, Stannis, and Shireen. Marya helped Sansa out with the chores, as did the dutiful Shireen, and Steffon and Stannis left the house to help Sandor when they became old enough and sprouted a few inches in height. They gained muscles rather fast and liked to show them off. They were still only boys, but no one could tell them that and have them believe it.

 

Arya’s presence in the city came and went through the ports much like the ships whose company she favored over solid land. From time to time, she would drop in and bring the children necessities or gifts. Occasionally, she bore one for Sansa or Marya. She never gave one to Sandor, though, and Sansa never asked why.

 

She knew better than to pry into such matters, and she knew, anyway, that Arya would never give her a satisfactory answer.

 

They rarely talked to each other, which tore at Sansa’s heart. Mostly, she would watch Arya’s ship sail off from the docks at sunset, the wind in her sister’s hair, and wonder how many months would pass until she saw her again. Sansa never told Arya, but her arrival on the docks always caused Sansa’s heart to soar with joy and a grin to come to her face. It was always gone before Arya could see it to prevent any uncouthness between them, but that never meant it was never there.

 

Eventually, Arya’s arrival no longer meant tart silence and curt words.

 

On this particular day, as Sansa walked through the docks selling off the fish in her basket, she saw a larger vessel come into port. Its hull was ravaged by what appeared to be ice, but its sails were bright yellow and the wood burnt brown. A strange curiosity took hold in Sansa, and when she took the coin from her latest customer, she dipped her head in thanks with a smile on her face and pocketed the money before heading off towards the new vessel that had come to shore.

 

Many people were gathering around to see what the fuss was about. There were many passengers aboard the ship, none of them Braavosi, and Sansa recognized their dress and tongue immediately—they were men and women and children of the west from the Seven Kingdoms, a land Sansa long believed had been covered in snow and death and decay.

 

She nearly dropped her basket right then until a whistle cut out from above.

 

Sansa glanced up. On the deck of the ship stood Arya, looking down at her. Her sister was a stark vision of sharp cheeks and grimy skin, unwashed from travel. She raised her chin and then her hand, signaling to Sansa.

 

“Fish woman!” Arya called out, jumping down from her perch. “Got any silver ones?”

 

Sansa swallowed, knowing Arya’s interest wasn’t in the fish. She was just trying to get Sansa’s attention without calling out her name or acting as if she knew her. In Braavos they did not go by the names given to them by their lady mother and lord father. Sansa went by Rose. Arya went by many names, so many that Sansa often forgot which one was current. Today, she remembered. The last time she saw Arya, her sister was going by the name of Tolly. Sansa had never heard of it before. She wasn’t even sure it was a real name.

 

Sansa pushed through the burgeoning crowd surrounding the ship and managed to get closer to the vessel. Arya hopped off the deck, landing on wooden planks below with a creak of old wood beneath her boots. She sauntered with the walk of a sailor who knew the lurch of the sea in her steps, and she had cut her hair short like a boy, but her face was sharp and pretty despite the dirt that covered it.

 

“Do you know what this lot is?” Arya asked in a low voice once they were a foot away from each other. She looked into Sansa’s basket, stuck her hand inside, and picked up one of the fish to examine it with a squint.

 

“They are from the Seven Kingdoms, aren’t they,” Sansa answered quietly. “But how is it possible? Where did they come from? Is it still—”

 

Arya dropped the fish back into her basket, and shot Sansa a sour look. “One at a time, by the gods,” she swore, rolling her eyes. She fell quiet for a moment as she stared at Sansa. “Yes,” she added pointedly at last. “We were circling the coastline, but the captain wouldn’t go to shore. Most people consider those lands cursed now. After the Wall fell . . . ”

 

Arya trailed off, but this time there was mourning in the silence. Sansa felt her throat tighten, and she bowed her head to look down. There were soggy boards filling her line of sight, but all she saw was Jon’s face swimming before her vision as she remembered him in her happiest of memories—laughing, throwing his face back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was all black, from his hair to his coat, but sometimes he had seemed to her brighter than the sun when he allowed himself to be happy.

 

“The dragons died,” Sansa whispered, afraid to speak the words too loud. With the fall of the Wall, no one had ever seen or heard of a dragon since. Jon never came back to them. Winterfell was never heard from again. Rickon’s laugh was but a memory, and the Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, never sat the Iron Throne. It remained only in memory as part of a ruin, ravaged by the Queen’s own dragons when she sacked the city as King Stannis held the Red Keep.

 

“We saw people,” Arya murmured. Behind herself, Sansa could hear the voices of the crowd rising together in a discordant commotion. “They built a fire. They made signals. Some argued with the captain. It took a day, but he agreed to stop and send a few brave ones to shore. I went with them.”

 

Hope rising inside of her, Sansa exhaled a tremulous breath. “Jon? _Rickon_?”

 

Arya’s eyes seemed to glisten, but no tears fell. The years had turned her as hard as stone. “I don’t know,” Arya said, shaking her head. “It’s been years, Sansa. We don’t know anything.”

 

“But they could be _alive_ —”

 

“A great many people could be alive,” Arya argued in a low voice. She tilted her chin further down. “It’s a big land over there, Sansa. They were untouched. They said their lands were safe. They heard rumors, but they never _saw_ anything.” Arya leaned closer then, her grey eyes shining and clear. “I’m going to go back,” she said firmly, her voice wavering. “I need to find Jon.” Her lips drew into a thin line, her face tight. “Even if it’s his bones.”

 

The pace of Sansa’s heart quickened at her sister’s words. It was all too much, too soon, and she reached out for Arya to touch her arm. For once, Arya didn’t turn away or scoff at her. Their eyes locked, and Sansa wanted to drop the basket. She wanted to board that ship with Arya. She wanted to leave Braavos behind her as a wildness overtook her blood—but then as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

 

She wanted to see her brothers again, of that there was no doubt, but she glanced over her shoulder—beyond the bustling crowd to the twisted canals, to the roofs of the houses and shops along the streets, to the bigger buildings beyond those as they reached up with pointed shingles into the fog settling above the city.

 

The sky beyond them was bright but soft. The sun was distant, small and white, and drifts of small gray clouds moved quickly in the wind.

 

Arya reached for Sansa’s hand, removing its grip from her arm and taking it into her own. She held fast. Sansa looked back to her, broken from her reverie. Arya’s eyes shone once more with vulnerability—something that Sansa had not seen in her sister for so long.

 

“Come with me,” Arya implored her.

 

Sansa felt the weight of her request fall heavy on her heart. It showed on her face, she knew, and she crouched to place the basket in her grasp down onto the dock. When she rose again, she wrapped her arms around her sister and held her close.

 

They stayed like that for a long time until Sansa pulled away first.

 

She placed her hands on Arya’s shoulders, smiling through her tears. “This is my home now,” Sansa said quietly, shaking her head, “and my children, they’ll need their mother . . . ”

 

Arya lifted her chin, the realization dawning in her eyes. Sansa knew she hadn’t forgotten about them, but Arya traveled so much that she probably didn’t often think of children as holding one back from that.

 

Arya nodded her head, a silent understanding.

 

Sansa managed to lower her hands from Arya’s shoulders. She brushed her nose and her cheeks, removing the tear streaks that now adorned them.

 

“When do you leave?” she finally asked Arya.

 

“A week from now,” Arya told her.

 

Sansa wiped her hands on her dress. She glanced around for her basket through blurred vision, picking it up again when she spotted it, and then she reached out for Arya with her other hand. “Come,” Sansa said firmly, guiding Arya around the crowd that had sectioned off the ship. “You must stay with us for a few days. I will make you something to eat. I’m sure you are hungry. You look absolutely famished. And you’ll need warmer clothes, too. I’ll make you plenty for your journey, and a cloak, you’ll need a good winter cloak . . . ”

 

Her voice drifted off as they weaved their way through the curved streets above the canals into the mist of the morning, a sun gently rising higher above the city, painting the waters glistening green as the fog receded and cleared the sky.

 

 


End file.
